


The Foreigner

by Aerlalaith



Series: In A Strange Land [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Boats and Ships, Cultural Differences, First Time, Fluff, Gay Castiel, Horses, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Medieval, Politics, Porn, Romance, Royalty, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Star-crossed, Tattoos, attempted arranged marriage (but not really)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To strengthen a prewar alliance, Michael sends his nephew, Castiel, west to King Robert’s court, in exchange for fostering Robert’s ward, young Adam of Winchester. There, Castiel meets Adam’s eldest brother, Dean. The relationship does not exactly go as planned. </p><p>(Prequel to 'Borderlands')</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part 1 of a series, and is the prequel to Borderlands. You don't have to read Borderlands to understand this story.

Dean of Winchester was furious, and everyone knew it.  
   
“Don’t go asking about it, Jo,” Sam warned her. The pair watched from a safe distance as Dean stomped his way down the staircase on the far side of the courtyard. He turned so abruptly into the next corner that a lesser man might have fallen, and opened the arched, wooden door at the base, slamming it behind him.  
   
Joanna Beth turned to him, eyes assessing. “But you know what’s wrong,” she said, not even bothering to make it a question.  
   
Sam gave a reluctant nod.  
   
“It’s about him—no,” she said, as Sam winced. “It’s about your family. Is it your father?”  
   
“Jo, I swore I wouldn’t tell. You’ll know soon enough anyway, I expect.”  
   
Joanna Beth placed her hands on her hips. “Well he’s about to go confront _my_ uncle about it. I should really know. You know, in the interest of preventing regicide and all.”  
   
“He’s not _that_ angry,” Sam said. But the doubt in his voice gave him away.  
   
“Of course, and my mother didn’t start out life as a tavern wench.” Jo grabbed at his elbow. “Come on.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
“And what can I do for you, Dean?” King Robert asked, not even bothering to look up from his work as his foster son burst into his study without even a by-your-leave. “Welcome back, by the way.”  
   
“You can’t send him,” Dean announced, stopping to stand just on the other side of the king’s elaborately carved mahogany desk. His hands balled into fists at his sides.  
   
King Robert finished signing off on a document with a flourish of his quill, sanded it, and placed it aside. He peered around Dean to spot two of his guards poking their heads in through the doorway, hands on the hilts of their swords. With a shake of his head, he waved them away. They withdrew, though only enough to stand just outside the room. He rubbed at his temples.  
   
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific,” he said. “I can’t send who to what now?”  
   
Dean’s face turned red. “ _Adam_ , Bobby!” he hissed. “You can’t just—”  
   
Bobby held up his hand, and Dean stilled, though reluctantly. “Calm down, boy. Did you even read the letter?”  
   
“I did read it!” Dean cried. Bobby got the sense that he wanted to pound on the desk to illustrate his point, and was just barely managing to restrain himself. He supposed he ought to be thankful. “Bobby, he’s too young. Send someone else!”  
   
Bobby removed his gold circlet, grimacing at it in distaste. He placed it on the desk, perhaps less carefully than he should have, and leaned forward, gaze intent. “And who should I send?” He looked at Dean pointedly. “You?” He raised an eyebrow. “Sam?”  
   
“I—” Dean said, flustered. “We’re needed in the hunt. No!”  
   
“King Michael’s sending his own nephew,” Bobby said. “I don’t have anyone of that ilk except for Jo, you and Sam. And Adam…” he hesitated, voice gentling a little as he shuffled another set of papers. “Adam’s your father’s bastard, Dean,” he said. “Acknowledged, yes, but he’s not going to have the opportunities that you and Sam have here. Sending him to foster with King Michael might well be the chance he needs.”  
   
“I don’t care.” Dean ground his teeth. “I don’t care that he’s a bastard, Bobby, he’s my little brother. He’s not even ten years old.”  
   
“For god’s sake, boy.” Bobby shook his head. “You think I don’t know that? I’m not sending him to stay there alone.”  
   
Dean frowned, clearly not expecting that. “Who are you sending?”  
   
“Pastor Jim is going with him.” Bobby watched closely as Dean relaxed a fraction at the sound of the name. He continued, “He’s a religious man, you know how they like that sort of thing. And he was part of the hunter corps.” He folded his hands together. “He’s the best man for the job. Adam will be fine.”  
   
Dean gave him a look. Bobby gave him one right back.  
   
“Dean,” he said. “Demon activity’s been getting noisier every year. We need this alliance with Michael. And unless you want to marry his widowed sister—” (Dean made a face) “—a foster exchange is the best option we’ve got.”  
   
Dean exhaled, closing his eyes. He slumped down onto an armchair next to the wall. “How long?”  
   
“I really don’t know.”  
   
“Bobby.”  
   
“A year or two,” Bobby relented. “Maybe longer.”  
   
Dean swore, burying his face in his hands. “How am I supposed to explain that to his mother?”  
   
“That’s my job. Or John’s,” Bobby said, voice stern. But Dean shook his head.  
   
“You’ll never get Father to do it right,” he said. “Besides, he’s been in the South Straits nearly two months now.”  
   
Bobby rolled his eyes. “The hell is he doing there?”  
   
“A siren, I think.” Dean shrugged. “Or something. He probably hasn’t even gotten your letter yet.”  
   
Bobby cracked his knuckles. “The hell if I care,” he said finally, moving another pile of parchment around. “He signed over guardianship to me about five seconds after Adam’s naming ceremony. He’s got no say in the boy’s future.”  
   
At the reminder, Dean’s lips thinned. “Does he know?” he said abruptly.  
   
“Does who know?”  
   
“Adam. Does he know?”  
   
“I’ve talked about it with him a bit. Can’t say if he really understands the situation entirely. And the ambassador—that Zachariah fellow. He’s a piece of work, let me tell you.”  
   
Dean’s lip curled upward at the reminder of Zachariah. “That ass? He’s still here? He was here when I left for Winchester.”  
   
A smile twitched at the corner of Bobby’s mouth. “Now Dean,” he said. “We’ve talked about this.”  
   
“He’s a disgusting hypocrite,” Dean said. “I saw him walk into the Mermaid’s Cove not two hours after one of his horrible sermons.”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“You really should put a gag on him. Of course, being _him_ he’d probably enjoy it a little too much.”  
   
“Dean, that’s enough.” Bobby’s tone was firmer now. Dean fell silent. “As much as I know how much you’d like to introduce him to a _real_ mermaid’s cove, Zachariah is Michael’s ambassador, and vital to the exchange.” He paused. “So try not to irritate him too much. All right?”  
   
There was a moment of silence. “Fine,” Dean grumbled.  
   
Bobby grunted.  
   
Dean rotated his neck. He leaned forward, the chair creaking. “When is Adam, you know—when is he scheduled to leave?”  
   
“Once the roads are clear,” Bobby said. He squinted out the window. Through the glass he could barely make out a set of snowy peaks, the clouds surrounding them contributing to the illusion of mountaintops drifting along the horizon. “The way the spring’s been going, I’d bet on a month or so.”  
   
Dean sighed. Bobby met his gaze, face kind.  
   
“I had a brother too once, you know.” His eyes flickered over to the golden circlet lying on his desk. “I know you’ll miss him.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said gruffly. He got to his feet. “I’ll go speak to Kate.”  
   
“You don’t have to.”  
   
Dean cocked his head. “Bobby,” he said. “She’s not going to tell the _king_ if she’s got a problem with you sending her son to fraternize with a bunch of easterners. She’ll talk to me.”  
   
Bobby glared at him. “Balls,” he muttered, glancing down, then back up again. “Fine. Get out of my study.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
Not two minutes after Dean had departed, he ran straight into Sam. “Whoa there, kid,” he said, steadying his brother’s bony shoulder. “What’s with you?”  
   
Sam made a face at him. “What’s with me?” he said. “I’ve just barely gotten away from Jo. Thanks a lot for being _subtle_ , by the way. Really didn’t make her suspect a thing.”  
   
Dean frowned, moving back a little. “Did you blab to her?”  
   
“Of course not,” Sam said indignantly. They fell into step together. “But what did…” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “What did Bobby say?”  
   
Dean’s shoulders slumped a little. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”  
   
Sam bit his lip. “Is Adam going to leave?”  
   
“ _Sam_ ,” Dean said. “Come on.” He tightened his grip on Sam’s shoulder. “Somewhere quiet, all right?”  
   
Sam scowled, but did as Dean said. Dean supposed he could only be grateful; Sam’s moments of obedience were fewer and further between these days. Dean got the sense that even those would disappear once Sam turned sixteen and was allowed to join the hunters proper—or not, as he had been hinting, to Dean’s immense displeasure.  
   
For the moment however, despite the fact that Dean himself spent most of his time in the barracks, at Winchester, or out on hunts, Sam and Adam were both technically still Bobby’s responsibility, and the Winchester quarters were well-kept and open to all three of them. Dean knew it was the only place they were guaranteed any modicum of privacy, and he headed there now, steering Sam along in his wake.  
   
The Winchester wing was near enough to Bobby’s rooms for propriety, at the southern end of the castle. Dean’s set of keys jangled as he twisted them in the lock, and he pushed the door open with a grunt. Like all the rooms, the doors were reinforced with iron, and it showed in the weight of them. Dean liked these rooms; on a sunny day he could see far enough past the trees to the glint of the sea, and the wide openness reminded him of the rolling fields of Winchester, rich with the scent of grass and the sound of horses, where he had wandered aimlessly for hours.  
   
Sam had always cried when he wandered afield, too young to accompany him. Dean supposed not all that much had changed in that regard  
   
He turned towards his brother, a reluctant half-smile on his lips. Sam was growing so quickly now, Dean half worried that he was going to split out of his skin like a shifter.  
   
“Those new boots?”  
   
Sam looked down at the footwear in question. “Bobby ordered them,” he said with an exasperated look. “My old ones were too small.”  
   
“So I heard.”  
   
Sam looked puzzled for a moment.  
   
“Actually, what I’d heard was Ellen caught you barefoot in the throne room and gave you a thrashing.”  
   
Sam’s ears turned bright red. “That’s not what happened!” he protested.  
   
With two quick steps, Dean lunged forward to ruffle at Sam’s hair just the way he hated it. “Not what I heard, little brother.”  
   
Sam smoothed down his hair, glowering, and crossed his arms. “Who told you that?”  
   
“Mmm.” Dean looked out the window. He could see the tiny sails of a ship just making the turn around the cove through the trees. “Garth.”  
   
Sam sputtered. “You can’t trust Garth!” he exclaimed.  
   
Dean raised two pointed eyebrows at him. “No,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Garth is physically incapable of lying.”  
   
“But that’s not—ugh. Dean, he exaggerated. Ellen didn’t _thrash_ me. There was just. Um. There were some words.”  
   
“Not very nice words, I’ll bet.”  
   
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Sam complained. He huffed as Dean laughed at him. “It’s not funny.”  
   
“I’ll have to ask Ellen about it.”  
   
Sam scowled at him. “Don’t you dare.”  
   
Dean held up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right,” he said. “Calm down.”  
   
“Were you going to tell me what Bobby said or what?” Sam asked, crossing his arms. He sat on the bay window seat, looking up at Dean with expectant brown eyes. After a moment’s pause, Dean sat down next to him.  
   
“He didn’t deny it,” he started. “He wouldn’t—I couldn't change his mind.” Unable to look his brother in the eye, he began to pick at the flowered green embroidery beneath him.  
   
Sam frowned. “But why?” he said, plaintive. “Adam’s not even old enough to train!”  
   
“I know that!” Dean snapped. He regretted it as soon as he felt Sam still. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to shout.”  
   
Sam voice, when he next spoke, was hesitant. “What did Bobby say?”  
   
“Said a lot of things.”  
   
“Dean. Come on.”  
   
With a sigh, Dean told him. As he listened, Sam’s frown grew more and more pronounced.  
   
“But that’s ridiculous,” Sam said, as Dean finished. “Adam shouldn’t go. I should go.”  
   
Dean stared at him. “Damn it, are you crazy?” he said after a moment. “No!”  
   
Sam turned to face at him, eager now. “No, listen. It makes perfect sense. You’re sworn to the hunters, Dean, but I’m not. Not yet, anyway,” he amended, as Dean’s look turned suspicious. “I’m old enough to leave home and take care of myself. I should go. Not Adam.”  
   
“No,” Dean said again. “You can’t, Sammy. It wouldn’t. It wouldn’t work.”  
   
“And why not?” Sam crossed his arms. “Better me than Adam, right? I’m not worth any more than he is, and I’m better prepared.”  
   
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. It was on the tip of his tongue to say it; they had only known about Adam’s existence for a few years. Sam was…Sam was… “Bobby hasn’t been able to contact Father,” he said instead. “He wouldn’t be able to arrange it in time. And Father would never agree, anyway.”  
  
“But he’d agree to Adam?” Sam sounded doubtful.  
   
“It doesn’t matter.” Dean shook his head. “Bobby’s Adam’s legal guardian.”  
   
“He’s mine too.”  
   
“No.” Dean swallowed. “He’s not. He’s— it’s a different situation with you. Us. We’re still Winchesters, even if we’ve been fostered here. Adam’s Bobby’s ward.”  
   
Sam’s eyebrows drew together. “But Adam’s a Winchester,” he said softly. “He’s our brother.”  
   
“He’s a Milligan, Sammy,” Dean said, hating himself even as he said it. “Like Bobby said it’s—it’s his best option.”  
   
Sam drew away, looking up at Dean. “Did you even try?” he demanded.  
   
“Sammy, I tried my best.” Dean reached for him, but Sam stood. His breathing was harsh through his nose, his fists curled at his sides as he stared down at Dean.  
   
“No,” he said. “I bet you want Adam to leave. You were angry enough when we found out about him. You think he’s shameful!”  
   
Dean jumped up. “I do not!” he said. “Sam, I swear to you, I tried my best to convince Bobby, all right? He wouldn’t listen.”  
   
Sam’s jaw worked. He licked his lips. “I have to go,” he said. “I have lessons.”  
   
“Sam, wait—”  
   
But Sam was already gone. The slam of the door echoed behind him. Dean sunk back down onto the cushions of the window seat.  
   
“Damn it,” he said. “Fuck.”  
   
  
#  
  
  
Young Adam Milligan’s departure took place a week after the spring equinox on a bright, sunny day in late March. It wasn’t, perhaps, quite as full of pomp and ceremony as Zachariah would have liked, but it was enough for poor Adam, who was rather unused to being such the center of attention. Bobby made sure to say a few official words, and Kate Milligan stood sheltered between Sam and Dean, alternating between pride that her son had been chosen, and devastation that he was leaving.  
   
“Do us proud, Adam,” Dean said to him. He squeezed his youngest brother’s calf, patting the neck of Adam’s new piebald mare. “And mind Pastor Jim, you hear?”  
   
Adam nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I will, Dean.”  
   
Dean smiled. “Good,” he said. His expression changed to something more serious as he scanned Adam’s small face, memorizing the freckles across his nose, the cowlick in his hair—uncannily like Sam’s, at that age.  
   
“Dean?” Adam asked uncertainly. He shifted. Used to riding ponies, not a horse proper, his legs were already a little sore  
   
Dean bit his lip. “We’ll miss you,” he said. His face cracked into a somewhat painful looking grin. “Don’t forget us, you hear?”  
   
“I could never,” Adam said indignantly.  
   
“Atta boy,” Dean said.  
   
“Will you send letters?”  
   
Dean winked at him. “Already sent the first one,” he said, as Adam’s face lit up. “You can read it when you get there.”  
   
“That’ll take two weeks!” Adam protested. His legs swung a little. “Can’t I read it now?”  
   
“Them’s the breaks, kid,” Dean said, catching Adam’s swinging foot in one deft hand. He adjusted the stirrups and placed the foot back in them. “Who set this saddle for you?”  
   
Adam shrugged. “Don’t know.”  
   
“Hmm.” Dean’s mouth twisted. “All right,” he said, finally stepping back. “Travel well, Adam.” He caught eyes with Pastor Jim, who nodded at him in acknowledgement. The riders at the front began to move out.  
   
“That’s a bold move giving him a horse from your father’s stables,” Bobby murmured as Dean rejoined them.  
   
Dean stared down at the ground. “He won’t miss her,” he said finally. He raised his head, now defiant. “Besides, Chevy’s sired tons of foals. It’s only right that Adam gets one.”  
   
“I wasn’t chastising you, boy,” Bobby said. “Lord knows Winchester horses are the best around. Michael’d notice our boy on a sub-par mount.” Dean flushed a little, as Bobby continued. “How are you two holding up?”  
   
“I’m fine, Bobby.” Dean shaded his eyes as he watched the back of Adam’s caravan train. “We’ve been over this.”  
   
“Uh huh,” said Bobby. “And Sam?”  
   
Dean was quiet for a moment. “He’s still angry with me. I—” he turned to Bobby. “He’s never been angry with me for this long.”  
   
Bobby snorted at that. “You’re not the only one.” They both turned to look at Sam for a moment. Though he was skinny as a rail, he towered over Kate, his arm over her shoulder in a show of solidarity.  
   
“I get why he’s angry,” Dean said. “I do.”  
   
“He’ll get over it eventually. He’s just a boy.” Bobby patted his shoulder.  
   
Dean exhaled.  “Have you _met_ him, Bobby? Kid holds a grudge better than anyone I’ve ever met.”  
   
“Nah, Ellen could give him a run for his money.”  
   
“Ellen’s not a good example.”  
   
“Not a good example of what?” Jo asked, popping up next to them. Dean started in surprise.  
   
“Damn it, Jo,” he said. “Would you learn to make noise?”  
   
“Not on your life.” She stuck her tongue out at him, then turned to Bobby. “Uncle, this lowly hunter isn’t bothering you, is he?” she said magnanimously. “I can have him flogged if you like.” She poked at Dean’s unprotected side.  
   
“No, you can’t,” Dean yelped, twisting away from her infernal little fingers.  
   
Bobby’s gaze flickered over Dean consideringly. Dean scowled at him.  
   
“Lot of help you are,” he grumped, settling back down again, though well away from Jo.  
   
Bobby shrugged. “I know how to pick my battles.”  
   
“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffed. “Jo, would you quit it?” he batted her hands away.  
   
Jo tossed her head, blond hair flying. “You’re a big baby.”  
   
“Uncalled for.”  
   
“Baby.”  
   
“Sadist.”  
   
“Enough.” Ellen pushed her way between them. “Bobby, we have a meeting with Victor in twenty minutes.”  
   
Bobby sighed, as Jo and Dean sent him twin smirks. “Funny,” he said. “Wait ‘till you run a country and your head general thinks you’re at his beck and call.”  
   
“You _are_ at his beck and call,” Dean pointed out.  
   
Bobby grumbled something.  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
“Never you mind,” Ellen said. She tugged on Bobby’s arm, heedless of any attempt at royal propriety. “Come on.”  
   
“I don’t know why you’re laughing,” Dean told Jo as Ellen led Bobby away. He quickly glanced over to where he had seen Sam but, like the majority of the crowd, he seemed to have disappeared as well. He focused back on Jo. “You’re next in line.”  
   
Jo shrugged. “Nah,” she said. “I’ll just abdicate like my dad did.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Dean crossed his arms. “To _who_?”  
   
Jo’s lips twisted. “Sam?” she suggested.  
   
Dean blinked. “That’s both a terrible and not a terrible idea,” he said. Jo beamed at him.  
   
“Isn’t it?”  
   
“With one problem.”  
   
“Yeah? And what’s that?”  
   
Dean nodded towards the main entrance. “Your mother would kill you.”  
   
Jo shrugged. “I’m still working out the kinks. But meanwhile, my back-up plan is just for Bobby to live forever.” They began to walk towards the stables. “That’s why you can’t kill him for sending Adam to King Michael.”  
   
“I’m not the one who’s still angry with him,” Dean said. He stopped to fix a loose buckle on his boot, leaning against a pine tree. “You’ve got to talk to Sam about that one.”  
   
“He’s still—?”  
   
Dean pulled away from the tree. He grimaced as he brushed off stray bits of bark, only to find the side of his uniform now covered in sap. “Barely even spoke to me all week,” he said glumly. Jo rolled her eyes.  
   
“I take it back,” she said. “He’s not gonna be king.”  
   
“Maybe it’d cheer him up.”  
   
“Maybe I’ll leave a frog in his bed for acting like a spoiled little girl.”  
   
Dean smiled, but it quickly faded. “He has every right to be angry,” he admitted. “I get that. I do.” He stepped into the cool darkness of the stables.  
   
“Oh yeah, Dean. You _definitely_ sound like you do.”  
   
Dean glared at her. “Really?”  
   
She blinked back at him. “You’re not selling it.”  
   
He kept walking down towards the far end of the stable. “You’re not helping, Jo.”  
   
She hurried to catch up. “All right, fine,” she said. “You were saying?”  
   
“Never mind.”  
   
“Come on, Dean.” She caught his hand as he made to fumble at the door to Impala’s stall. He pulled his hand away, letting out a breath.  
   
“I get why he’s angry,” he said, as he stepped into the stall to be greeted immediately by a very enthusiastic black head. “I just wish he wasn’t angry at me, you know?” He patted the front of Impala’s nose, then moved over to rub at her sides. “How you doin’, darling?” he crooned. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a carrot. Impala snorted.  
   
Jo considered this, leaning over the gate, her chin in her hands. “Why _is_ he mad at you?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “Guess he thinks I didn’t try hard enough to keep Adam here.”  
   
“You’re not his guardian.”  
   
“No, but I am his brother.”  
   
She squinted at him. “That’s a load of crock shit and you know it.”  
   
“That mouth on you, Jo,” Dean commented. He selected a brush and set about Impala’s shoulders with it.  
   
“He’s being an ass.”  
   
“He’s not even sixteen. He’ll come around.”  
   
“You think he’s going to join the hunters?”  
   
Dean froze for a split second. Impala nickered at him, and he resumed brushing. “I expect so.”  
   
“You’re worried.”  
   
“Why would I be?” There was a definite edge to his voice now.  
   
“Dean…”  
   
_Brush, brush, brush._ “Hey, did your uncle talk to you at all about who Michael’s sending in Adam’s place?”  
   
Jo frowned at him, but allowed the change in topic for now. “Not really,” she said. “He’s a cousin on his mother’s side.”  
   
“Huh,” Dean said. “So he’s not even in Michael’s House?”  
   
She shook her head. “House Novak,” she said.  
   
Dean stopped brushing. “Novak? Like the shipwrights?”  
   
“I guess?” She watched as Dean put the brush away. He gave Impala a final pat, and pushed his way back out of the stall. “You’ve heard of them?”  
   
“Heard of them?” Dean repeated. “Jo, Michael’s got the biggest fleet in the world. You know that.”  
   
She crossed her arms. “Of course I do.”  
   
“Well, every one of those ships was built by the Novaks,” Dean said, as they banged out of the stables. “Seriously. His entire navy. Novak ships.”  
   
“Guess it makes sense there’d be a family connection,” Jo mused. By silent, mutual agreement, they bypassed the way to the courtyard in favor of the narrow path just outside the castle walls. It hugged the stone sides for a good while, before veering sharply downward through the trees towards the beach.  
   
The interior of the forest was cool and hushed when they entered the shade of the canopy. Dean breathed in the scent of clean pine and dry earth; it was a lot quieter here than the courtyard, just the barest bit of birdsong and the rustle of newly unfurled spring leaves. “Did he say when Novak’s supposed to arrive?”  
   
“No idea,” Jo said. She leapt onto a log, her balance betraying long years of dancing lessons. “Probably soon, though. Since it’s an exchange and all.”  
   
“Huh,” Dean said. “I wonder what the hell Bobby’s planning to do with him.”  
   
   
#  
   
   
Castiel of Novak, fifth in line for the throne, soldier, sailor, and shipwright like his father before him, was having quite a bit of difficulty coming to terms with his revered uncle’s latest orders.  
   
“But I’m to go to the Isles,” he said blankly. “I received my papers two days ago.”  
   
Gabriel, third in line to the throne and about as eager for it as a church-boy for his castration, delicately nibbled on a lemon cake. “Not anymore,” he said. “Duty calls.”  
   
“But that _was_ my duty!” Castiel blurted. He clutched at his hair reflexively. “I’m a sailor…”  
   
“Not anymore, dear nephew,” Gabriel said. He took a last bite of cake, wiping frosting off of his nose with a napkin. “Now you’re an ambassador.”  
   
“What?” Castiel’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”  
   
Gabriel cocked his head. “Uh, no.” He got to his feet, straightening the crisp white and gold of his uniform.  
   
Castiel stood as well. He gripped the side of his own uniform to hide the shaking in his hands. “Gabriel, I’m no diplomat.”  
   
“Don’t I know it,” Gabriel sighed. He glanced Castiel up and down, his gaze assessing. “But it might not be a total disaster,” he murmured to himself.  
   
Castiel felt the strange urge to cover himself. “What?”  
   
Gabriel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Michael’s looking for an alliance,” he said. Castiel shook him off.  
   
“Yes, I know,” he said tightly. “I am to be the exchange. You’ve already explained that. But I’m too old for fostering, Gabriel. What does Michael expect me to do?”  
   
“You misunderstand me, Castiel,” Gabriel said. “The exchange is only the beginning.” Castiel blinked at him. Gabriel rolled his eyes. “King Robert’s niece, you dolt,” he said, squeezing the juncture of Castiel’s neck and shoulder. “You’re to…get to know her.”  
   
Castiel stared. “What?” he said weakly, as Gabriel passed a hand over his eyes.  
   
“Honestly,” he muttered. “Cassie—”  
   
“Don’t call me that,” came the automatic reply.  
   
“Fine. _Nephew_.”  
   
“Sir,” Castiel sniped back.  
   
Gabriel glared at him. “Michael’s aiming for a betrothal at the very least,” he said.  
   
“A betrothal?” Castiel’s eyes bulged. “Uncle, I can’t marry this girl, I’ve never even met her!”  
   
“That’s why Michael’s sending you on the exchange first,” Gabriel said with forced patience. “Honestly, you should be grateful that Michael even thought about that part.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “I’d never marry a woman I hadn’t even met beforehand,” he said stiffly.  
   
“You would if Michael commanded it,” Gabriel said, his voice sharper this time. “Life isn’t a fairy tale, Castiel. You’ll do as Michael commands.”  
   
Castiel bit his lip. “Of course,” he said finally. “I will do as Michael commands. He is my king.”  
   
Gabriel nodded to him. “You’re to leave within the week,” he said. “We have word from Zachariah that King Robert’s exchange is already on his way to the Capital.”  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “Who did he send?” he asked, interested despite himself.  
   
“An Adam of Winchester,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “Rumor is boy’s a bastard, though if he’s wearing the Winchester name, he’s clearly been acknowledged. He’s to be a page for Michael, at any rate.”  
   
“A page.” Castiel blinked. “How old is he?”  
   
“Not even ten.”  
   
Castiel fidgeted with the front of his uniform. “And Michael agreed to this?”  
   
“He did.” Gabriel was watching Castiel’s expression closely, so he could tell the moment it closed off. “He chose you specifically.”  
   
“Why?” Castiel let his hands fell to his sides again, back straightening. “If he wanted someone to seduce the king’s niece, he should have gone with Uriel.”  
   
“Rafael protested,” Gabriel admitted. Castiel’s face, if possible, got even stonier.  
   
“So I’m the second choice,” he said flatly. “And I am to… _get to know_ , the King’s niece.” He said that last part with obvious distaste. “I see.”  
   
Gabriel clapped his shoulder. “You’ll do fine,” he said. Castiel assumed he meant to sound reassuring. He didn’t do a very good job of it. “Maybe you’ll even like the girl.”  
   
“Maybe,” Castiel echoed, though privately, he highly doubted it. He sat back down again and buried his face in his hands, already mentally organizing everything he would need to do before his departure. “I assume we’re travelling by sea.”  
   
“You assume correctly.”  
   
“Are you captaining it?”  
   
Gabriel’s smile didn’t waver. “My, Castiel. You’re good at this game.”  
   
“Hardly.” Castiel pushed his teacup away, standing to pace. “Michael could have sent a letter. You’re to be my escort?”  
   
Now Gabriel grimaced. “It sounds funny if you say it like that,” he said.  
   
“But you are,” Castiel pressed.  
   
“At your service.” Gabriel gave an ironic little bow. “Michael’s not taking any chances with the Straits.”  
   
Castiel huffed. “If he’s so concerned, we could ride overland like I assume my counterpart did.”  
   
“And miss a chance for Michael to show off his fancy ships?” Gabriel held up his hand as Castiel opened his mouth. “Don’t answer that question, Castiel,” he said. “It was rhetorical.”  
   
Castiel’s mouth closed with a snap. “I know that,” he muttered. He exhaled. “Did the King have any other commands for me?” he queried. He massaged his temples. The day had been long, and this hadn’t been how he’d wanted to end it.  
   
“Not yet,” Gabriel said. He hesitated before adding, “But you know how that usually goes.”  
   
“I do,” Castiel sighed. He walked a few steps over to the window. Outside, the ocean lashed at the black basalt below the base of the cliff. A light rain tapped on the window. He turned back to Gabriel. “Are we leaving from here?”  
   
“Of course.” Gabriel pointed. “We’re already moored down at the bay.” Castiel looked to where the cliffs flattened out and the land curved inward into a protective crescent moon, less than a quarter mile to the north. He could see the squat roofs bordering the shipyard and just beyond, bobbing in the swell, a large frigate. Only one of the masts had its sail raised, but Castiel could well envision what she’d look like with all of them spread. He turned to Gabriel.  
   
“Michael’s sending a _warship_?” he hissed.  
   
Gabriel cast a glance at the ship in question. “It’s impressive,” he defended.  
   
“Yes,” Castiel bit out. “Obviously, Gabriel. But don’t you think King Robert might get the wrong idea?”  
   
Gabriel spread his hands. “King Robert knows that if it weren’t for the Straits and those infernal mountains, he wouldn’t stand half a chance against us. A warship’s not going to change that. It’s just pomp, Cassie.”  
   
Castiel shut his eyes, and leaned against the glass, feeling the coolness of it beneath his forehead. “This is going to be terrible,” he predicted.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
 


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re joking.”  
   
Bobby shook his head. “I’m not, Dean.”  
   
“But…” Dean sank onto his favorite chair. “Bobby,” he tried. “I’m _busy_. I don’t have time to babysit.”  
   
“You’re not going to have to babysit him, Dean, you’re just going to be showing him around. You know.” Bobby indicated with a wide sweep of his hands. “Showing him the ropes.”  
   
“That’s babysitting,” Dean said flatly. He slapped his forehead. “I can’t believe this. Why don’t you make Sam do it?”  
   
Bobby narrowed his eyes at him from across his desk. “Sam’s not a hunter, Dean,” he said, voice very, very calm. Dean shot him a glare. Bobby amended, “At least not officially, anyway. Part of the reason Michael’s sending Novak is to learn about the hunter corps. Sam can’t teach him much.” He shrugged.  “And it would be an insult if I passed it off to anyone else. You know that.”  
   
Dean made a face, fingers tapping erratically on his thigh, trying to find a flaw with that argument. “They have the biggest army in the world,” he objected.  
   
“No,” Bobby corrected. “They have the biggest _navy_ , Dean. Boats don’t mean much when you’re fighting demons in the deep woods.” He gave Dean a significant look, jerking his head towards the windows and the mountains beyond. “That’s _our_ turf.”  
   
Dean’s expression remained stubborn. His jaw worked, and he straightened in his seat. “I just don’t think—”  
   
“Enough, Dean,” Bobby said tiredly. He shoved his chair back, rubbing his temples. “It is what it is, all right? So would you stop whining about it and do what I tell you? For once?”  
   
Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again. He exhaled, hanging his head. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m not gonna babysit him. If he can’t keep up…” he trailed off, the threat clear.  
   
“That’s fine,” Bobby said, nodding serenely. “As long as you don’t get him killed, you can do whatever you want.”  
   
Dean perked up.  
   
“Within reason,” Bobby added quickly, spotting the gleam in his eye. He cocked his head, rapping his knuckles on the desk as Dean got to his feet. “I already told Rufus, by the way,” Bobby said, as Dean laid a hand on the doorknob. “He knows to expect two of you.” Despite the fact that Dean’s back was to him, Bobby could well envision his foster-son’s grimace.  “So don’t even _think_ about ditching him,” he finished.  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled. He tugged at the door and it swung open with a characteristic creak. “Bobby, you really should get someone to oil this thing.”  
   
“You’re a brat,” Bobby told him. He reached over to the day’s pile and pulled out a leather-bound ledger. He looked up in time to see Dean’s answering wave disappear out the door. Bobby sighed. “Well,” he told the ledger, fingering the gold filigree, “that went well.”

  
#

   
When he was thirteen years old, Castiel had been sent to spend his first season as a cabin boy on one of his father’s ships. Since then, he had been tutored extensively in not only the sailing of ships, but also the building them, navigation, and the battle tactics most effective at sea. At sixteen he began his officer’s training in Michael’s court, and finished it two years later under Gabriel’s command after a battlefield promotion just off the southern coast of the, ever contested, Isles.  
   
None of that had prepared him to be a lowly passenger among his own crew.  
   
“You’re making them nervous,” Gabriel said to him in an undertone. The pair stood near the bow of the ship, watching the cliffs of the Straits draw closer through the fog.  
   
“I’m making them nervous?” Castiel repeated. “What, Uncle, did you pick this crew fresh from the Academy? They’re making _me_ nervous.” He gripped the railing, slick with spray, tighter.  
   
Gabriel let out a quiet laugh. “So some of them are a little green,” he said, watching as Castiel muttered an indistinct reply, a look of clear distaste on his face. “What of it? The Straits aren’t half bad this time of year. We’ll make it through.”  
   
“If we don’t, I will hold you personally responsible,” Castiel told him, lips pursed. He glanced over his shoulder at the crew, then back towards the mouth of the Straits as they glided ever closer.  
   
Gabriel smirked. “Cassie,” he said, placing a companionable hand on Castiel’s shoulder. It was immediately shrugged off. “There isn’t a passage in the world I can’t navigate through. You know that.”  
   
Castiel snorted in reply. Gabriel tilted his head.  
   
“Would you feel better if I told you I plan to pilot her myself?” he asked, nudging at Castiel playfully.  
   
Castiel’s expression didn’t change, but the tautness of his body relaxed ever so slightly. “Are you planning on it?”  
   
“Of course,” Gabriel said. He placed his hand over his heart in mock agony. “Castiel, please. Do you think I’d trust these greenhorns to pilot _my_ ship through the damn Straits? I’d have to be mad!”  
   
“Sometimes I’ve wondered,” Castiel murmured. He didn’t want to admit it, but having confirmation that Gabriel would take over as pilot did much to sooth his nerves. Castiel was a very good pilot, but Gabriel was an exceptional one. He nodded at him thankfully, and turned to go.  
   
“Oh, and Castiel.”  
   
Castiel looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”  
   
“Make sure to take that frippery off, would you?” Gabriel winked at him, as Castiel looked down at his, unusually fine, shirt and trousers. He had been told in no uncertain terms not to wear his normal uniform, to avoid confusing the crew. Castiel blinked.  
   
“What?”  
   
Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t want those idiots up in the rigging climbing around without supervision while I’m trying to get us through in one piece.”  
   
“But—” Castiel cast a glance over to Gabriel’s first mate, a bear of a man with a distractingly high voice.  
   
Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “No. Go put your uniform on.”  
   
Castiel blinked again, then straightened. “Yes sir,” he said, saluting, even as Gabriel waved him off.  
   
“Yes, yes, very good. Now hurry the hell up.”  
   
Castiel hurried. When he went down to the cabin he was sharing with Gabriel, the winds blowing off the far-reaching southern cliffs were already causing a noticeable shift in the gait of the ship. By the time he reemerged, the water swirled them along, driving them straight towards the rocks. Castiel braced himself. He could see that Gabriel had already taken control of the helm. He joined him.  
   
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard against the ever-present wind. It guarded the Straits like a jealous husband, only varying in intensity with the seasons.  
   
Gabriel shook spray out of his eyes, his hands gripping the tiller tightly. “We’re going to luff up and then take the current back east!” he shouted. “The tide’s too low to go straight or let the wind carry us towards the shore!” He wet his lips. “Tack so we get running west, parallel to the cliffs! I want to get us out a ways before the current takes us back in!”  
   
Castiel nodded. “Yes sir!” he called back, already making his way to the port side. He ducked under the swinging boom, and began to holler out Gabriel’s orders. The first mate looked a little miffed but, after a good long look at the two golden stripes on the arm of Castiel’s uniform, he held his peace.  
   
With Gabriel’s steady hand on the tiller, they raced west, careful to keep away from the dangerous southeastern current, needing to get the distance to avoid overshooting the mouth and bringing themselves too close to shore for there to be any hope for a safe passage through. The high rocks began to space out, curving to the southwest. Castiel turned to look at Gabriel just in time to catch the wide grin stretching across his face.  
   
“This is it!” Gabriel bellowed. “Hard to port!”  
   
Castiel held his breath as the ship swung back around, its nose now pointing in a direct line to the mouth of the Straits. He felt a jolt as the current caught them. Gabriel let out a whoop as Castiel ordered the sails trimmed to maximum efficiency and the current began to drag them along, gathering speed even as they moved closer to the rocks.  
   
The first rocks rose up in front of them, seemingly out of nowhere, but Gabriel avoided it with ease, as if he had been expecting it all along. The ship jostled as Gabriel dodged boulders and jagged rocks below with equal nonchalance, still making for the mouth. Soon they reached the apex; tall cliffs covered in a wide, natural bridge, water swirling round and around the center. Castiel bit his lip, though his face remained calm. He held tightly to the rails as Gabriel guided them through.  
   
There was a brief moment of terror and darkness, with nothing to lead them but the sound of water and the promise of light on the other side. And then, as quickly as it had started, it was done, the ship gliding into the calm of Great Moon Bay, the Straits only a memory behind them.

  
# 

   
Starting the day of Impala’s birth, Dean had developed a habit of waking at the crack of dawn to go visit her down in the stables. When she grew older and strong enough to carry him, these visits had gradually transformed into a tradition of early morning rides. Though his induction into the hunter corps had shuffled their schedule somewhat, Dean still relished any time he was off duty, to take Impala either up the forest paths or down to the shore, and experience a few moments of a life without care.  
   
Therefore it was Dean and Impala, coming back from their habitual morning jaunt, who were the first to spot the visitors.  
   
Dean focused a long, hard moment at the ship, floating gently just offshore, before nudging Impala into a canter and turning back towards the walls of the city.  
   
By the time he made it back to the castle proper, it was breakfast. Dean dropped Impala off at the stables with an apologetic kiss and a coin tossed to a stable boy, before making his way to the Long Room, just off the kitchens.  
   
“Bobby,” Dean said conversationally, stealing an apple off his brother’s plate, while Sam sputtered. “Did you know that there’s a warship anchored just down the beach?”  
   
Sam shut his mouth with an audible click. Bobby dropped his fork.  
   
“There’s a what?”  
   
Dean lounged across a chair. He took a bite of the apple, swallowed, and began ticking off on his fingers. “Well, it’s got three masts, at least four cannons, and I think I spotted a catapult somewhere on there, but couldn’t be too sure.” He shrugged.  
   
Bobby pushed back his chair. “Just one?” he said finally, eyes intent. Dean sat up straighter.  
   
“Just the one,” he agreed. He watched as Bobby pressed his lips together, swearing under his breath. “What?”  
   
“That Michael,” Bobby grunted. He straightened his jacket. “Always showing off. Come on.”  
   
“You think it’s the envoy?” Sam asked, shoveling the last of his eggs into his mouth. He hurriedly wiped his face with a napkin.  
   
“Either that or Michael’s decided a simple alliance ain’t good enough for him anymore,” Bobby said. He sighed, looking very put out for having to interrupt his breakfast. “Well, we’d better go see what they want,” he said, about as enthusiastic as someone about to attend a funeral. He rolled his sleeves back down, trying to tug the wrinkles out of them, and turned to one of the breakfast attendants. “One of you go find Ellen and Jo,” he ordered. “They’re to meet me at the courtyard dressed to the damn nines. Dean.”  
   
“Sir?”  
   
“Tell Rufus to send a detail of half a dozen, with extra horses, down to the docks. Can’t have these easterners wandering will-nilly about the town. They’d throw the whole damn place into a panic.”  
   
Dean saluted. “Yessir,” he said, thankful that this morning he’d had enough foresight to put on his hunter’s uniform. With a nod to Sam, who looked a little bit put out to be excluded from going down to the docks, he strode out of the room, taking the shortcut through the kitchens towards the barracks.  
   
Twenty minutes later, Dean was astride Impala once more, this time riding behind what he suspected was a still hung-over Rufus, in the company of five other hunters. They trotted quickly through the streets, much to the surprise of their civilians, who for the most part were unaccustomed to seeing so many hunters on parade.  
   
“Sir Rufus!” someone shouted. Dean turned to watch as Jody Mills, head of the city guard, steered her white gelding to Rufus’s side.  
   
“Sheriff,” Rufus returned evenly.  
   
Jody nodded toward the horizon, where the tops of the three masts were just visible above the tree line. “What’s with the ship?”  
   
“Hunter business,” Rufus growled. “No need for you to worry about it.” He urged his horse to go a little faster. Jody easily kept pace.  
   
“Well, I would think a warship about to land would concern the city guard too, don’t you?”  
   
Dean watched as Rufus drew in a sharp breath, his expression darkening even further. Knowing that Bobby would have his head if he allowed the rivalry between the city guard and the hunter corps to culminate in a street-brawl over an assumed imposition, he urged Impala between his captain and the sheriff, and graced Jody with his sweetest smile.  
   
“Good morning, Sheriff.”  
   
“It’d be better if I knew we weren’t about to be sacked and burned,” Jody said dryly, crossing her arms.  
   
Dean nodded. “It’s an envoy for Bobby,” he said. “Official business.”  
   
Jody squinted at him. Her mouth twisted wryly. “And his Lordship couldn’t have told me that _before_ I started getting panicked civilians pounding at the door this morning?”  
   
“Oops,” said Dean.  
   
Jody shook her head. “Try and keep me posted next time, would you?” she said wearily.  
   
“Of course,” Dean agreed, while Rufus doubtless grunted something much less acceptable for polite company. “Definitely.”  
   
After one last, long look at them, Jody gave a quick nod. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll try and keep the crowd contained.” She clucked at her horse. Dean saluted as she moved off.  
   
Rufus grimaced after her, then turned to give Dean the eye.  
   
“Sorry, sir,” Dean said. “Thought we’d want to avoid a scene.” He ducked his head as Rufus graced him with a disdainful look.  
   
“Don’t be getting ahead of yourself, Winchester,” he said. He rolled his shoulders. “Damn interfering city folk trying to do our job,” he grumbled, while Dean manfully refrained from reminding him that Rufus himself had been born and raised in the city. “Come on.” He moved ahead of Dean, who was more than happy to let him go, sliding back to ride in the company of his fellow hunters.  
   
“Wow, Dean,” Garth said. “I thought old Rufus was going to bite your head off!”  
   
Dean closed his eyes momentarily. “Just trying to keep the peace,” he muttered.  
   
Garth smiled, either completely unaware of Dean’s irritation, or just plain ignoring it. “So what do you think this envoy of King Michael’s going to be like, anyway?” he said as they reached the city gates.  
   
“Some soft-handed layabout, probably. Wouldn’t know a demon from a vampire if it bit him on the ass.” Garth frowned at him.  
   
“Now why would you think that?” he admonished. “He’s supposed to join us, ain’t he? Learn about the hunters?”  
   
Dean snorted. “Have you met Zachariah?”  
   
“Well, just because one ambassador’s like Zachariah it doesn't mean they’re all like that,” Garth said, entirely reasonably and much to Dean’s annoyance. “He could be perfectly nice!” He grinned, showing straight white teeth.  
   
“Yeah, fat chance of that,” Dean said. He shook his head, urging his horse a little in front of Garth’s as they passed through the gates, already opened for the day.  
   
It was a quick ride to the docks from the entrance of the city. Though the walls had been built out of necessity more than a century ago to deal with demon encroachments, the city had never lost its roots as a fishing town perched on the edge of the sea. Every morning the gates opened to allow the fishermen out to haul in their catch, and every evening they closed after the third star was sighted in the sky. Peering past the docks, Dean could see the bobbing fleet of small white sails. He noticed with some humor that, unlike their usual pattern of scattering to the four winds, they seemed to have clustered together in little groups near to the south side of the docks, well away from the warship.  
   
The ship itself was anchored in deeper water, doubtless a goodly distance to swim if one was inclined to try it. As the company arrived at the docks and dismounted, Dean spotted a rowboat being lowered over the side.  
   
“Think that’s them?” he asked Rufus, who shaded his eyes, looking in the direction Dean pointed.  
   
“Yeah, boy,” he said. He straightened his uniform with jerky motions, and handed the reins of his horse over to Garth. He turned on his heel to give them all a probing look, then heaved a sigh. “Try and look smart, would you?” he said, casting a particular glower at Gordon, who straightened grudgingly. “We’re supposed to be official.”  
   
They waited, watching as the boat rowed closer. Dean could now see that it held four people, each of them dressed in the white and gold uniform of Michael’s navy. He wondered which one was Novak, or if maybe he was planning to show up later.  
   
The boat bumped into the dock. One of the sailors jumped out to secure it; the other three followed, clambering onto the wood with the grace of those accustomed to the rocking motions of the sea, not yet entirely used to being on land. One of them, a shorter man with light brown hair, spied Rufus at the front of the company, and made a beeline for him.  
   
“Welcome to Singing Falls,” Rufus said stiffly, as the man approached. “I’m Sir Rufus Turner. Hunter corps. We are to escort you and your companions to King Robert.”  
   
The man beamed. “Hello, Sir Rufus,” he said, with a little flourishing bow. “I’m Gabriel.”  
   
There was a pause.  
   
“Of the House of Seraph,” Gabriel added, as if it were an afterthought to mention that he was directly related to the royal family. Rufus’s right eye twitched.  
   
“Welcome,” he grit out again. Dean winced a little, wishing that Bobby had sent Victor, or Jody, or anybody except for Rufus in the morning.  
   
“Thank you,” said Gabriel, smooth as silk. “And it is my pleasure to…” he stopped, frowned, then glanced behind him. “Castiel,” he said loudly.  
   
The young sailor who had jumped out to secure the boat and was now tying a second set of knots, jerked his head up, looking guilty. Dean swallowed down a laugh. Then, as the man stood, brushing off his knees and turning to stride over to stand next to Gabriel, Dean swallowed again, this time for a completely different reason.  
   
_Blue_ , was the first thought that crossed his mind. It was followed in rapid succession by _stubble_ and _stands very nicely_.  
   
“My nephew,” Gabriel said. “Castiel of House Novak.”  
   
Castiel bowed politely. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. The rumble of his voice was unexpected enough to startle Dean out of his daydream. “I expect I will learn much under your tutelage, Sir Rufus.”  
   
Rufus blinked in surprise. “Well,” he said, slightly mollified. “The hunters will be, um, fortunate to have you in our ranks.”  
   
Castiel bowed again.  
   
Rufus motioned to Garth, who brought forth the reins for the extra horses. “The King is eager to make your acquaintance,” Rufus said, rather convincingly for someone who Dean knew was lying through his teeth. “I assume you ride?”  
   
“We do,” Gabriel assured him, though Dean could see Castiel looking a bit askance at the horses. Gabriel called over a third man, who he introduced as Castiel’s manservant, and all three of them managed to mounted up well enough, leaving the forth fellow to stay with the boat. Observing them out of the corner of his eye, it was clear to Dean that from his posture, Castiel was less than comfortable on a horse.  
   
That, Dean decided as they road slowly back up the winding road to the gates of the city, was definitely the first thing on his list.

  
#

   
Despite his occupation as a solider, Castiel had had an excellent education. History had in fact been one of his preferred subjects, and so he glanced around wide-eyed as Sir Rufus lead them through the streets of Singing Falls, the infamous capital of Middlewest, knowledgeable about enough of its past to be properly awed.  
   
The journey from the docks to the castle took about thirty minutes. Castiel was not ashamed to admit that he had spent most of his time aboard ship reading as much as he could get his hands on about their, famously reticent, neighboring kingdom and its ongoing grudge against the demons lurking along its harshly defended borders. Finally there in the flesh, he ruminated on those lessons, cementing them with visions of the real thing.  
   
The city had been designed first and foremost as a place of defense, and it showed. Unlike most of its contemporaries, the three rounded levels of the Singing Falls didn’t function to separate those of high status from the lower ranked. Rather, each level served as another line of protection, with the castle and the caves behind it being nigh impenetrable by mystical means.  
   
While they rode, Castiel kept an eager eye out for the city’s peculiarities and, knowing what to look for, he was not disappointed. Castiel was well aware, for example, that the strangely patterned cobblestones actually formed a series of Solomon’s Keys, all inlaid one within the other, a trap for even the strongest of demons. He made sure to pay special attention to them, trying to figure out the nuances of the pattern. Likewise, the walls surrounding the city were also far more than they first appeared. More than one of Castiel’s textbooks had proclaimed them an engineering marvel, describing their unbroken iron centers, surrounded by granites hewed from the mountain quarries to the east; impassable to most beings of a supernatural nature.  
   
From the outside, Castiel couldn’t tell the difference, but he supposed that was probably the point.  
   
Castiel spotted a woman, her hair knotted tightly to her head, open a door nearly parallel to the ground, and remembered with a start that what he was seeing only skimmed the surface; a large percentage of the inhabitants lived below ground, with great limestone caverns allowing for the building of elaborate houses, warehouses, and even some shops.  
   
It was, Castiel decided as they rode through the castle gates, nearly overwhelming.  
   
According to his collection of histories, King Robert’s castle had begun life more than two hundred years ago, all the way back to the day Samuel Colt and his alliance of clans had ridden into a fishing village, to shore up for one last stand against the Demons. And though two hundred years was nowhere near the age of the capital in Eden, with the buildings and canals veritably steeped in memories of ages past, Castiel could see that the city and castle here had their own charms, their own history.  
   
Of course, Castiel reminded himself, Colt’s venture had ultimately proved successful, and he lived long enough to sire a line of kings and direct the building of the famous wall, laying the first stones of the city proper, so a bit of pride was probably well deserved in that regard.  
   
He had been a marvelous architect, Castiel could not help but think, as he gazed up at the structure. For while the front of the castle looked exceedingly normal, with turrets and arched windows and little bridges, it blended into the cliffs behind it so well that a visitor could be walking the halls only to find themselves in the extensive network of cliff caves, with no recollection as to how, exactly, they had gotten there.  
   
The stones of the castle were different than the material behind it. They glittered a cold grey, before fading away into the tan sandstone of the cliffs. Above the gate, King Robert’s red and black banner fluttered in the morning breeze.  The symbol was a simplified version of Solomon’s key; a five pointed star, surrounded by a blazing sun. As they passed beneath it, Castiel could not help but feel a peculiar shiver of premonition.  
   
Unlike Michael, who Castiel knew from bitter experience preferred to greet his guests in the throne room, surrounded by his own opulence, King Robert and what Castiel assumed was the welcoming committee, were waiting for them in the main courtyard.  
   
Sir Rufus dismounted first, his troupe of green-clad Hunters following suit. Castiel and Gabriel slid off their horses as well, and Castiel signaled for his manservant, Oren, to do likewise.  
   
King Robert was easy to distinguish. He was not a very tall man, and his short beard and hair were streaked with gray. On his head, Castiel could see the glint of a golden circlet. He wore what Castiel thought to be very plain clothes: a long-sleeved white shirt, and dark trousers and boots. Around his shoulders however, draped the blue, red, and grey tartan of the Royal Singers, held together at the front by a silver clasp.  
   
Unintentionally, Castiel caught his eye and, seeing the glint of intelligence, realized that though the king might have looked like a simple, grizzled soldier, the mind behind that facade was anything but.  
   
Flushing a little, Castiel focused back on what Sir Rufus was saying. Apparently, Gabriel had been introduced first, for his kinsman stepped forward and proceeded with a short bow. King Robert’s bushy eyebrows rose as Gabriel’s title was announced, and King Robert said with a gruff voice,  
   
“Welcome, Admiral.”  
   
Castiel’s respect for him went up another notch, for he was sure that no one, and especially not Gabriel himself, had mentioned his actual rank.  
   
“…and my nephew, Castiel of Novak,” Gabriel was saying.  
   
Castiel startled as he registered his name. He moved forward quickly, and gave his own bow to King Robert. The king nodded to him in acknowledgement.  
   
“Welcome, Castiel,” said Robert. “It is our hope that your visit here, while educational and enjoyable, will ultimately be of benefit to our two countries.” Castiel nodded, as Robert continued, “If I may introduce my family?”  
   
“I would be honored, your Majesty,” Castiel said. Of course, as soon as the words left his mouth, he recalled that the people of Middlewest’s distaste for formality travelled all the way up to their highest ranks, with their kings preferring the more ambiguous “my Lord” or even the archaic “Chief” to the grandiose “Majesty” of home. Internally, he winced.  
   
The king’s expression did not change at Castiel’s slip, but Castiel saw out of the corner of his eye, one of the green-clad hunters cover his mouth with his hand, ostensibly to stifle a snicker. Castiel pressed his lips together, and tried to remember that this was meant to be a learning experience. It was a cold comfort.  
   
Robert gestured first to the young woman on his right. “My niece and heir, Lady Joanna Beth,” he said. As soon as she was introduced, Castiel’s eyes widened with interest. So this was the woman he was supposed to, ‘get to know.’ He supposed she was pretty enough, with her honey-colored hair and high cheekbones. She wore a sash in the same colors as King Robert’s, and did not smile at the introduction, merely inclined her head at Castiel’s bow.  
   
As Castiel took in her form, the ideal visage of a young woman, he felt an uncomfortably familiar prickle of hot shame somewhere deep in his belly. For Castiel knew that he could look at her thus for a thousand more days, and still he would feel nothing.  
   
“And her mother, the Lady Ellen.” He indicated to the woman who stood on Joanna Beth’s other side. Lady Ellen nodded to him as well, in a movement uncannily similar to her daughter’s. She however, let out a small, though wary smile.  
   
“Welcome.” she said, as Castiel returned the greeting.  
   
There was a teenaged boy on Robert’s other side. While he was already tall, his hands and feet still looked a bit oversized for his body. Castiel got the sense that when he reached his full height he would tower over the rest of them. He wore clothes similar in make to the king’s, though his tartan wrap was smaller, and a different pattern. Castiel scarcely had time to wonder why someone without the Singer colors was standing with the royal family, when the boy was introduced as Samuel of Winchester, another one of Robert’s foster sons. This, Castiel surmised, must be the Illegitimate Adam of Winchester’s half-brother.  
   
“And I assume that you’ve already met my other foster-son, Dean of Winchester,” he said.  
   
Castiel blinked at him. King Robert looked nonplussed, then sighed, and looked pointedly behind the visitors, towards the group of hunters who had served as their escort. Someone coughed. Castiel slowly rotated around as one of the hunters stepped out of the group. In fact, Castiel realized with a jolt of irritation, he was the same exact one who had laughed at Castiel’s earlier faux pas.  
   
The young man bowed. “Dean of Winchester,” he offered. He let loose a slow smile, and Castiel couldn’t stop a reflexive swallow. The hunter might have been an ass, but he had, ah, very pleasing bone structure. “At your service.” Dean’s voice was a low drawl, with an inflection that revealed he must have spent a large part of his youth much further inland than Singing Falls.  
   
Castiel bowed back, more out of reflex than anything. His gaze flickered over the rest of Dean’s features, lingering on the shape of his lips, the green of his eyes, and the way the hunter’s uniform hung as though tailored to his body. That feeling of discomfort that had appeared when he had first laid eyes on Joanna Beth and remembered what Michael had asked of him, tripled with the introduction to this cousin of hers, and Castiel could not help the way the back of his neck slowly reddened.  
   
“I have asked for my foster-son to introduce you to our ways and customs,” King Robert said. “He is to accompany you through your hunter training.”  
   
As the king’s words penetrated, Castiel felt the strong urge to cover his face with his hands. And though he couldn't help but sneak another glance at Dean under the cover of his eyelashes, Castiel vowed then and there that he would keep as much distance as possible between himself and Dean of Winchester.  
   
   
   
 


	3. Chapter 3

It was a shame that Dean of Winchester had such fantastic cheekbones, Castiel decided, for the man himself was undoubtedly some kind of horrible sadist.  
   
“I do not have the skill to do this,” Castiel informed him for what felt like the fourth time in an hour. “If you could go over the process again I would be—”  
   
“Cas,” Dean interrupted, ignoring the startled look Castiel gave him at the name, “you’re never going to learn it if you don’t try it. Look.” He shook his head, jumping down off the fencepost and approaching him. “The horse knows what to do, all right? You’ve got to trust him.”  
   
Castiel scowled down at his borrowed gelding. The horse snorted, and Castiel reluctantly found himself patting the roan neck. It wasn’t the horse’s fault that Castiel was in this position, he reminded himself. The poor beast was probably about as irritated as Castiel. No, Castiel thought, narrowing his eyes. This was all _Dean’s_ fault.  
   
Apparently Castiel’s expression was much less fearsome than Castiel had imagined, for whatever Dean saw on his face only made him laugh.  
   
“You are really something else, you know that, Cas?” Dean commented. He stroked the gelding’s nose as he spoke. “Here you are, a decorated soldier, and you can’t even make a damn horse jump properly.”  
   
“I am a _sailor_ ,” Castiel said witheringly. He folded his arms. “I’ve not needed to ride a horse for many years.”  
   
“Well, tough,” Dean said. He tilted his head. “A hunter’s most important companion is his horse. Take my Impala, for example.” Dean’s eyes softened a little. “I raised her from a foal. When we go out hunting, she doesn’t just carry me—she carries my weapons, my holy water, everything I need to survive. And not just that.” He stepped back a little, gesticulating as he spoke. “Impala can spot a demon as quick as I can. She fights for me, and when we need to run, I’d have no chance without her. She’s everything to me.” He grinned up at Castiel, brushing a hand through his hair a little self-consciously. “So you see, us hunters _have_ to have that connection, or we wouldn’t survive.”  
   
Castiel quirked an eyebrow at him. “Your affections for your horse are tremendous,” he said. As Dean beamed, Castiel added dryly, “I’m beginning to understand why you are unwed.”  
   
Dean’s jaw dropped. He sputtered. Castiel smirked at him, then gathered the reins loosely in his hands.  
   
“I will try this again,” he announced.  
   
Later, after the lesson, Dean was called away on patrol. Castiel, who neither Dean nor Sir Rufus wanted anywhere near a hunt until he had been “trained up a bit, gotta make sure the damn horse won’t throw your ass,” remained in King Robert’s castle. After a bath, he decided to accept Gabriel’s invitation to spend a bit of time exploring the city. As Gabriel explained it, it was probably the only chance he at least had to walk Singing Falls without Michael’s diplomacy hanging over his head. There was no chance Gabriel was going to waste the opportunity.  
   
“And how are you settling in, my young kinsman?” Gabriel asked conversationally as the pair of them exited the rooms they had been accorded.  
   
Castiel hesitated. He had arrived less than three days ago, and the whirlwind that had been his introduction to the basics of hunter life had left little room for breathing, much less thought. Also, though he was loath to admit it, Dean’s riding lessons had left him very sore in places he hadn’t known existed and he had a feeling that complaining to Gabriel on that front would only make his dignity worse.  
   
Finally he said, “It seems to be going well. Though, I am finding the levels of…” he searched for the correct word, “informality,” he settled on, “quite odd. It is very different than the Court in Eden.”  
   
Gabriel tittered, brushing his hand against the rough stone of the wall. “Michael,” he said, “was engineered to be a pompous ass through over a thousand years of selective breeding. These Westerners were sleeping in caves on bearskins two hundred years ago. They’re one step away from the clans they started as, and Robert knows that. He’s not going to make them bow and scrape.” He held his finger to his nose. “Not if he wants to keep his crown.”  
   
“He does appear to be extraordinarily friendly with his…subjects,” Castiel agreed. “And it’s not just that Dean has taken to calling me,” he made a face, “ _Cas_ , even though we’ve only just met.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Do not repeat this, but yesterday I heard Dean refer to the king as ‘Bobby’. Bobby!”  
   
Gabriel laughed. “Imagine,” he said, contemplative, “if Michael allowed us to call him ‘Mikey.’” He paused. “Cas.”  
   
“At least Dean’s nickname is a fair sight better than yours.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed as he added without a shred of humor, “And Michael would cut off your head and stick it on a pike on the castle wall if you ever called him that.” Gabriel clapped his shoulder.  
   
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re out of the country.”  
   
Castiel nodded fervently.  
   
They stepped out into the main courtyard. The sky was rather blue for the time of year, a perfect background to King Robert’s fluttering red banner. As they crossed to the main gates, Castiel could spot a group of ladies going the other way. He noticed that one of them was Joanna Beth, and he picked up his pace a little, hoping that Gabriel wouldn’t see them.  
   
In retrospect, Castiel realized as Gabriel gripped his arm and hauled him in the ladies’ direction, it was a stupid thing to hope for.  
   
“Lady Joanna,” Gabriel said, skidding to a halt in front of her. He released Castiel to give one of his more florid bows. Castiel nearly toppled over, earning himself a raised eyebrow from one of the other three women. “And how do you fare this afternoon?”  
   
“Um,” said Joanna Beth. Her eyes flickered over to the entrance to the castle, then back to Gabriel. “Fine, thanks.”  
   
“Wonderful,” said Gabriel, while Castiel resisted the urge to sink into the ground.  
   
“Hello, Lady Joanna,” he said instead. His arms were stiff at his sides; he urged himself to hold them more naturally, but at the moment couldn’t quite remember how. Contrary to his expectations however, which were essentially to be fixed with a skewering look and perhaps expelled from the castle grounds, Joanna Beth’s eyes lit up.  
   
“Oh, hello, Castiel,” she said, a great deal more warmly than she had to Gabriel. “Dean told me he’s been giving you lessons on hunter horsemanship.”  
   
“Um,” said Castiel, deciding that he really, _really_ didn’t want to know exactly what Dean had told her about Castiel’s ‘horsemanship’. “He has been a very, ah, patient teacher. I suppose.”  
   
She tossed her hair behind her head, her look turning sly. “I’m sure. He also told me what you said to him this morning.”  
   
“Did he?” Castiel paled a little.  
   
Joanna Beth winked at him. “Believe me, you’re not the first to wonder about him and Impala. They are _extraordinarily_ close.” And then she actually laughed, her ladies joining in. As Castiel tried to get his vocal cords to work around the confusion (was she joking? She must have been joking), she said, “Well, I have a meeting with the weapons smith in twenty minutes. But I suppose I will see you later?” she caught and held his gaze. “Perhaps at the gathering tonight?”  
   
“I—yes,” Castiel managed. “Later.” Just barely, he remembered to bow.  
   
As the group of ladies wandered off, Gabriel turned to him. “That wasn’t half bad,” he said. “Maybe Michael wasn’t insane and this might actually work.”  
   
“I wasn’t flirting with her,” Castiel muttered, before remembering that he didn’t exactly want Gabriel to know that. He chanced a look at Gabriel, ready to try and salvage that sentence, but Gabriel didn’t even seem to be listening. His eyebrows were creased, his lips pursed as if deep in thought. They crossed under the main archway, his uncle giving a friendly wave to the guards. “Gabriel?” Castiel asked, tentatively.  
   
Gabriel canted his head. “Isn’t Impala the name of Dean’s horse?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
Gabriel looked deeply concerned. “Are you saying that the King’s foster-son is a horse fucker?”  
   
“Gabriel!” Castiel yelped. He glanced around quickly to make sure no one else had heard. “Of course not! He’s not a—” he pinched his brow. “It was just a _joke_. We were _joking_.”  
   
Gabriel stared at him. “Of course,” he said. “I knew that.” He started to walk.  
   
“No,” Castiel glared, “I’m really not sure you did.”  
   
Soon enough, they passed through the small copse of trees that ringed the castle, and reached the first few buildings part of the town proper. “So, joking,” Gabriel said, “with the Lady Joanna.” He smiled. “That’s quite the progress there, young Castiel. And after only three days to boot!” He looked proud. Castiel’s stomach began to feel a little unpleasant.  
   
“Yes,” he echoed, pretending to examine the patterned cobblestones beneath their feet, “quite the progress.” He swallowed, glancing up again. “Where did you want to go?”  
   
“Well, you know what areas I’m partial to,” Gabriel said, with a raise to his eyebrows that made Castiel want to scrub his body all over. He sighed, a bit theatrically, and looked up at the sky. “But it is a little bit early for that,” he said. He lifted his shoulders. “You’re the one who’s read up on this place. So?”  
   
Castiel wet his lips. “I would like to examine the wall,” he heard himself say. “Perhaps the—the caverns.”  
   
“Caverns?”  
   
Castiel found himself explaining the presence of the limestone caves beneath their feet, and how their original purpose as storage and safety had expanded to create essentially another district of the city. Gabriel looked skeptical.  
   
“I would not wish to live like a rat in the ground.” He grinned. “Though I do think a visit to a _tavern_ in a _cavern_ …” he paused, wriggling his eyebrows again, “would be something worth writing home about.”  
   
“That barely even rhymes,” said Castiel.  
   
“Psh, of course it does. Lead the way, Nephew.” He linked their arms together. “I’m thirsty.”

  
#

  
“It’s not like you have to actually seduce her,” Gabriel was saying, while Castiel hoped fervently that anyone sitting nearby was far too distracted by the musicians to eavesdrop on their conversation. “I mean, Michael wants something legitimate. Not a sordid affair.”  
   
“I would assume Michael would take whatever he could get,” Castiel muttered. He took another sip of his beer. It wasn’t what he usually would have drunk, but it wasn’t half bad either. He liked the bubbles.  
   
Gabriel lifted his tankard in a silent toast. He drank, then, wiping foam off his mouth with his sleeve, put it back down on the table with a _thunk_. “Well, just don’t get the girl pregnant without some kind of ceremony, is all I’m saying.”  
   
Castiel spat out his mouthful of beer.  
   
“God, you’re a prude,” Gabriel said, rolling his eyes. “You sure we’re related?”  
   
“I really don’t think that’s going to be an issue, Gabriel.” Castiel took his napkin and mopped at his shirt.  
   
“You have the restraint of a monk,” Gabriel told him.  
   
_You have no idea_ , Castiel thought, even as he turned red and tried to think of anything, any topic at all that could get him out of this conversation. He rolled the charm he had bought a few hours ago between his fingers. It looked very similar to King Robert’s banner. When he had placed it on the counter, Gabriel had peered at the design and informed him that Michael would certainly have him arrested for wearing the symbol of another kingdom. Castiel had shrugged, told him that the shopkeeper had said that it warded off demons (and shouldn’t that be something he really ought to be concerned with now?), and looped the string twice around his wrist.  
   
Gabriel was still talking. “You know, the whole cave thing really creeped me out when we first got down here, but now that it’s been awhile, it’s starting to grow on me a little.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed above his head. “Air’s still a bit stale though. Don’t think I could live here.”  
   
“I think there are some pumps in place to keep the air circulating.” Castiel stopped fiddling with the charm and placed his hands on top of the table.  
   
“Oh yeah?” Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”  
   
“I read about it in the book that discussed how Colt originally went about designing the city.”  
   
Gabriel blew air out from between his cheeks. “Of course you did.” He tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling of the cavern again. The people all around them seemed a great deal less enchanted, judging by the way they went about their business in the shops and by the carts and in the little cafes lining what Castiel had taken to calling the main boulevard.  
   
“There are all kinds of formations,” Castiel said, grasping at this new topic. “The book was very detailed.”  
   
Gabriel pointed at a stalagmite. “That one looks like a dick.”  
   
“Don’t be vulgar.”  
   
“Well, it does! It even has the little mushroom head.”  
   
“You’re disgusting.” Castiel pushed his chair back. He stood, while Gabriel laughed.  
   
“Where are we going now?”  
   
“Back to the castle,” Castiel said. He glared as Gabriel pouted. “No, we promised King Robert we’d be there for the gathering. You’ll have another chance to visit a, a house of ill repute or whatever it was you intended to do down here.”  
   
“But I’m leaving in two days.”  
   
“ _Gabriel_.”  
   
“You know, maybe a house of ill repute would do _you_ some good.”  
   
The corner of his right eye twitching, Castiel gathered up the rest of his belongings and turned on his heel, marching out of the tavern, head held high. He didn’t bother to look behind him to see if Gabriel was following—he could hear his complaints well enough.

  
#

   
Evening had begun to fall by the time he and Gabriel made it back to the castle. Though intellectually Castiel knew that there was no safer place on the shores of Great Moon Bay than Colt’s fortress, he still shivered, keeping his eyes peeled as they tromped through the pines and firs that set the castle apart from the rest of the city. He had been raised on tales of the demons in the region; though grown now, even a child’s fears had a way of sneaking back when one was alone in the dark.  
   
Castiel cast a sideways eye at Gabriel. Well, not alone, he admitted to himself. And though he knew Gabriel didn’t like to talk about it, his uncle _had_ inherited quite a bit of the Seraph Gift. Castiel sighed. He himself barely had enough of the _Novak_ Gift to qualify for the name, and anyway—a healer wouldn’t be much help if demons came to call. The gift of the Seraphim, though… Castiel had seen it used only once, by Gabriel, and it had been, for lack of a better word, awe-inspiring.  
   
“Why so pensive, Castiel?”  
   
“Hmm?” Castiel turned his head, only to see Gabriel staring at him quizzically. “Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just thinking.”  
   
“Must be some mighty interesting thoughts.”  
   
“Not really.” They reached the gates. They hadn’t been shut yet, thankfully. Castiel turned around a little to watch as the red ball of the sun continued to sink even lower on the horizon. As per tradition, and much like the city itself, the castle gates would close when three stars were visible in the sky.  
   
“What do you think they do when it’s cloudy?” Gabriel asked conversationally as they strolled through.  
   
“What?”  
   
“You know.” They crossed the courtyard, which was mostly empty by now—the music was scheduled to begin soon. “About closing the gates on time.”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “I expect they have an almanac.” He pushed open the main doors while Gabriel, as expected, rolled his eyes.  
   
“You have an answer for everything.”  
   
“I have to, being related to you.”  
   
“You know, for a Novak you’ve got a real smart mouth on you, Castiel.” They turned a corner and began to climb a set of stairs, heading for their rooms. “What would your father say?”  
   
“He’d probably blame my mother.”  
   
Gabriel snorted at the mention of his eldest sister. “I don’t know how she ever put up with him.” They reached their suite of rooms. Castiel unlocked, then shoved at the door, knowing from bitter experience that it was a great deal heavier than it looked.  
   
“It’s truly a mystery,” Castiel grunted as he strained. The door scraped across the floor.  
   
“They had to reinforce damn near everything with iron, didn’t they?”  
   
“You’re not helping, Gabriel.” Castiel stood back as the door finally swung the rest of the way. Gabriel lifted his shoulders.  
   
“You seemed to be doing just fine.”  
   
“I’m going to remember this,” Castiel promised even as he followed Gabriel through the entrance. Of course, the door was for some damnable reason easier to move on the other side.  
   
“Colt was obsessive about that iron.”  
   
Castiel paused in the act of pawing through his clothes to find something suitable for the evening, to throw Gabriel a dirty look. “Colt was a genius.”  
   
“Yes, well, the two aren’t exactly mutually exclusive, are they?” Gabriel said lightly. He disappeared down into his wing before Castiel had a chance to reply. Castiel grit his teeth, then glanced around the room.  
   
“Do you know where Oren’s gone?” he called.  
   
“He’s _your_ manservant!” Gabriel shouted back.  
   
“Only because you and Michael _foisted_ him on me,” Castiel grumbled. He pulled off his shirt and pattered into the bathroom. He admitted to being surprised upon his arrival, though relieved, to learn that indoor plumbing was _not_ a foreign concept to these Westerners. However, he supposed that if Colt had been clever enough to create a second, underground cave city and a magical, demon-repelling wall, running water was probably not beyond his talents.  
   
The only problem, Castiel winced as he splashed his face and quickly under his arms, was that the water was cold unless you sent a specific request for it heated. He shuddered.  
   
“Are you done primping yet, Cassie?” Gabriel queried, leaning around the doorway. He was already dressed again, this time in fitted black trousers, well-polished boots, and a green shirt. The top of the shirt was unlaced a little, exposing Gabriel’s collarbone. Castiel narrowed his eyes at him.  
   
“You aren’t going to wear your uniform?”  
   
“Why should I? It’s not an official function, and everyone already knows who we are. Besides,” he pointed a finger at Castiel, “that damn collar is itchy as hell.”  
   
“Suit yourself.” Castiel headed back into his bedroom and pulled out his uniform jacket. It was a little wrinkled, he thought, but nothing that would draw _too_ many comments— he started as it was ripped from his hands. “What?”  
   
“Absolutely not. You want the girl to look at you, don’t you?”  
   
“What?” Castiel felt like tearing his hair out. “Gabriel—”  
   
“Here.” Gabriel shoved a different shirt at him. It was blue, and made of silk. It was very nice, Castiel allowed, but still. Letting Gabriel dictate his choices rankled.  
   
“I’m not wearing that.” He moved away in search of his uniform trousers, unbuttoning his casual ones as soon as he found them, and pulling the uniform ones up in their place.  
   
“Just trust me on this one, Castiel.” Gabriel pushed the shirt in front of him again. “You wear this, she won’t be able to _stop_ looking.”  
   
“I—” Castiel glanced at him, then the shirt, helplessly. He didn’t _want_ the Lady Joanna looking. He wanted… no.  
   
“It makes your eyes pop like you wouldn’t believe.” Gabriel dangled the shirt. “Trust me.” He winked.  
   
Castiel swallowed. He gave Gabriel a look, and then shot another one at the shirt. Finally, with an exhale, he ripped it out of Gabriel’s hands. “Fine,” he said shortly. “But the trousers stay.”  
   
Gabriel held up his hands. “That’s fine,” he said. “Just don’t spill anything on them. Hard to get wine stains out of white cloth.”  
   
“I am _not_ a child.” Castiel glared at him, pulling his head through the shirt even as he spoke. He lifted his hands to re-situate his--now mussed--hair, but Gabriel stopped him.  
   
“No, let me do it.” He stepped forward, and fluffed Castiel’s hair.  
   
“You’re just making it messier!” Castiel snapped, jerking away.  
   
“Hold still, would you? It looks better like this.” Gabriel reached for him again, but Castiel ducked under his grasping hands. He pulled his boots up in record time and stood, smoothing his hair protectively by the doorway.  
   
“Come on. We’re going to be late.”  
   
“You can’t be late to a _party_ , Castiel,” Gabriel told him, nose in the air as he marched past and into the hallway. “You can only be more or less fashionably on time.”  
   
“Well, we’re about to be fashionably not on time.”  
   
“That doesn’t even make any sense, Cassie.”  
   
Still bickering, they trooped down the corridors toward the Great Hall. Castiel had been inside only once, the day when he had first arrived, and then it had been a huge echoing cavern set towards the rear of the castle, with wide wooden beams crisscrossing overhead, and tall windows lining the sides.  
   
Now as they drew closer, Castiel could already hear the strains of lively fiddle music, accompanied by not a few drums, and at least a flute or two. Castiel halted just outside the door, smoothing down the front of his shirt with suddenly sweaty hands.  
   
“Are you all right?” Gabriel paused next to him.  
   
Castiel licked dry lips. “I’m fine.” He was not fine. He felt like he was going to vomit.  
   
Suddenly, Gabriel’s expression turned a lot more sympathetic. “Oh,” he said. “I’d forgotten you got like this.” He lowered his voice as two people walked by. “If you’d like, I can tell King Robert that you’ve taken ill.”  
   
It was Gabriel’s solicitousness, more than anything, that made Castiel take a deep breath, fighting to calm his roiling stomach. “No,” he rasped. “I’ll be fine.” He took a few more breaths, willing his heart to beat slower, the chaos in his stomach to calm to manageable levels.  
   
“If you’re sure.” Gabriel stepped back as Castiel nodded. He forced himself to form a tight smile.  
   
“Let’s go in,” he said.  
   
The party was in full swing by the time they pushed their way through. Castiel did not miss the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up as he spotted the dancers near the middle; if there was anything Gabriel liked to do as much as drink, it was dance.  
   
“Do you mind if I…?” Gabriel trailed off, his meaning clear. Castiel shook his head.  
   
“No, please. I—” he tried to find that rather painful smile again. “You know how I do at these functions. One of us should enjoy ourselves.”  
   
Gabriel gave him a searching look. “If you’re sure.”  
   
“Of course I am.” Besides, Castiel could spy a corner just off where the drinks were being served. It would suit his wallflower tendencies perfectly. “Go.”  
   
Apparently, Gabriel needed no further urging. With one last nod at Castiel, he strode his way to the center of the room, grabbing the hands of what looked like the first willing woman, and twirling her onto the dance floor.  
   
Castiel sighed with just the littlest bit of envy at how at ease his kinsman seemed. He jumped as a voice spoke to him from behind.  
   
“So you did come. We were starting to think you’d never show.”  
   
Castiel turned round. “Lady Joanna,” he said, startled into a bow. He caught sight of the man behind her, clad in a simple shirt and trousers, and straightened, fighting an automatic flush. “Dean.”  
   
“Hey Cas,” Dean said. He gave a wave. Joanna Beth rolled her eyes, and tugged on the arms of her green dress.  
   
“For goodness sake, Castiel. Don’t call me ‘Lady Joanna.’ Just Jo will be fine.”  
   
Castiel eyed her stern expression. “Lady Jo?” he tried.  
   
Joanna Beth— no, just Jo, crossed her arms. Dean coughed, clearly hiding a laugh. They both swiveled to glower at him. He edged away.  
   
“I think I’ll go get us some drinks.”  
   
“How thoughtful of you, Dean,” Jo deadpanned.  
   
Dean bowed, just the slightest bit of a mocking grin visible on his face. “I live to serve, _Lady Joanna_.”  
   
“Oh, fuck you.” Jo swatted at him. Castiel’s mouth dropped open. Dean shot him an apologetic look.  
   
“You should’ve heard her _before_ Ellen shipped her off to finishing school.” He yelped as one of Jo’s swings finally made contact. “All right, I’m going,” he said, with an exaggerated wince, rubbing at his arm.  
   
“Don’t mind Dean,” Jo said, as Castiel continued to stare, “He’s always been an ass. I think it might be a birth defect at this point. _Sam_ is always polite.”  
   
“His brother?”  
   
“Yes, I saw him here earlier, but I think he’s run off with one of my maids.” She shrugged, palms open upwards as if to say _what can you do_.  
   
“Oh, I…” Castiel grasped for something, anything he could say without seeing rude. “I see.” He nodded in the direction Dean had gone. “You do these, these occasions. Every week?”  
   
“Most weeks, yes.” Jo tucked her hair behind her ears. “It goes back to, you know. Before. All the little clans used to have dances like this. Now we just have one big one. Though,” she acknowledged, “there are some in town too, I guess.”  
   
“But not as grand as this one.”  
   
“No.” the corner of her mouth crooked up in a smile. “Dean and I used to sneak in here when we were too young to attend proper,” she said. She pointed at the tables near the drinks, laden with food. “We used to hide under the tables and steal the cakes.” She snickered, shaking her head. “Dean got caught all the time.”  
   
“Not you?”  
   
Jo raised an eyebrow, tossing her head. “No, of course not. I’m much sneakier than he is.”  
   
“You seem very well acquainted with the Winchester brothers.”  
   
Castiel didn’t know what exactly he was expecting for a reply, but it wasn’t a laugh. “Dean told me you were funny.” She patted him on the shoulder. Castiel went rigid. Jo didn’t seem to notice as she went on, “They’ve been fostered here for nearly ten years now. Of course we’re close.”  
   
“Ah,” said Castiel, weakly. Then, Jo’s earlier words penetrated. “Dean has been talking to you about me?”  
   
“Oh.” Jo’s eyes darted down to the floor, but after a second she smiled. “Well, he um, we talk about our days, you know. And since he’s been training with you…”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel frowned. “And he thinks I’m funny?” he said, trying to clarify.  
   
“Sorry, Cas. Hate to break it to you, but you are hilarious.” Dean glided back up to them, laden down with drinks, one held precariously in the crook of his elbow. He handed one to Jo, then another to Castiel.  
   
Before Castiel knew what he was doing, he had tossed back what he assumed to be wine (it was red, anyway). He wiped at his mouth while the other two blinked at him in surprise. “I’m not trying to be. Funny, that is.”  
   
Dean flicked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”  
   
“I don’t understand.”  
   
Dean smiled. “Don’t worry, Cas.” He slapped him on the back. “It’s endearing.” Castiel slowly rotated to glare at him.  
   
“Did you just call me _endearing_?” he said in disbelief. Really, there was informality and then there was, well. Whatever was _wrong_ with the people who lived in Singing Falls.  
   
“I might have.” Dean didn’t even look guilty.  
   
“Castiel,” Jo said brightly. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?” She grabbed at his hand, pulling him away from Dean.  
   
“I—” Castiel stuttered. But before he could articulate just how disinclined he was, he found himself swept up with the rest of the dancers, one of Jo’s hands on his shoulder, the other clasped tightly with his. Purely in the interest of not tripping over his own feet, Castiel pulled her in around the waist.  
   
The dance was a polka, and Castiel scarcely had time to figure out what was happening before they were off gallivanting to the tune set by the fiddle. Jo smiled up at him, and Castiel sweated as they galloped around the room, twirling so many times that Castiel feared they would run into someone. He was very fit, he knew, but the press of the crowd made it seem as though everything took ten times more effort, so that by the time the music wound down, Castiel was panting. Jo slid her hands away.  
   
“Thank you for the dance, Castiel.” She curtsied.  
   
“I—” Castiel said, panicking. Was he supposed to kiss her hand? Did they do that here? He settled for a bow. “Thank you.” He hesitated, then added, “Lady Jo.”  
   
Jo narrowed her eyes at him. The musicians started up again. This time, the fiddle was conspicuously absent, with only a chorus of drums.  
   
“If I may cut in?” Dean asked smoothly, sliding in between them. Castiel nodded. He stepped back, fully intending to give Dean space to access Jo, so he was taken quite by surprise when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. “And just where do you think you’re going?”  
   
Castiel tilted his head, and gestured wordlessly between Dean and Jo. Jo’s eyebrows drew together for a moment, but then her expression cleared. “Oh, no,” she said, backing up a little, hands held up. She grinned. “This dance is for the menfolk only, Castiel.” She nodded to the other dancers, all men now, Castiel could see. They had formed two lines in the center of the room, facing each other.  
   
“I,” Castiel said, weakly. “I do not know this dance.”  
   
“It’s not so hard.” Dean was smirking at him now. Castiel half wanted to punch him and half wanted to, well. “Come on.” He pulled at Castiel’s elbow, stopping at the end of the line, Castiel on one side, Dean on the other. “There’s no progression on this one,” he said, pointing as the other men began to step. “So you just follow what they do. Mirror me.”  
   
Unable to do much else, Castiel nodded.  
   
“Good.” Dean moved back in line with the rest. He began to half-step, half-stomp, moving first to the left and then to the right. As well as he could, Castiel followed suit, a beat behind the rest. They met in the middle and bowed to each other, hands briefly clasping then sliding away, clapping once, twice as they stomped and bowed again. Dean’s eyes caught and held his.  
   
They were green, Castiel thought dazedly. Almost a hazel. And so kind, though from their interactions thus far, Castiel could see that he was inclined to hide it. He swallowed as his line skipped forward three steps, then back two, whirling smartly on their heels. They all stood still as Dean’s line did the same, though their group came just a little bit closer. Castiel imagined that he could feel the heat from Dean’s body, though it was probably just his own exertion. Moisture dripped down the side of his face.  
   
The dance continued on, stomping and bowing, weaving back and forth from each other and Castiel, almost unwillingly, found himself caught up in the rhythm of it. And through it all, his and Dean’s eyes remained locked, their movements a nearly perfect mirror.  
   
Castiel could see sweat staining the sides of Dean’s shirt, darkening the green of it. His eyes looked darker too now, Castiel thought, though it must have been a trick of the light. He felt a shiver run through his body.  
   
The dance ended with a spectacular set of stomps, turns and claps, of which Castiel only got about half right. It ended with the two lines nose to nose, breathing harshly into each others’ space as the they stared each other down and the drumbeat fell off into an echo of its former self.  
   
They were so close, so close. He could count the freckles on Dean’s face now, smell the musk of him, nearly feel his chest as it heaved with exertion. Castiel’s mouth opened a little. Dean’s tongue swiped out to lick his lips. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. Dean’s eyes fluttered, and Castiel caught himself, stumbling backwards.  
   
“Thank you for the dance, Dean.” He managed to smile tightly. Dean just looked confused, and also a little disappointed. Castiel was sure he was imagining that last part. “It was quite the cultural, um. Experience.”  
   
Finally, Dean stepped back as well. “No problem,” he said. His lips pursed a little. “Any time, Cas.”  
   
“Yes well.” Castiel’s throat felt dry. “I need to, um. I need a drink.” He pivoted abruptly, heading for the table. Once there, he grabbed the first thing that he saw—wine again, naturally—and downed it, trying with all his might to forget the expression on Dean’s face.  
   
That, of course, is how King Robert found him.  
   
“Enjoying the festivities, Castiel?”  
   
Castiel choked, putting his new glass of wine down on the table. “Your—my Lord,” he said. Robert raised an eyebrow at him. “Ah, yes,” he lied hurriedly, “I’m enjoying it, very much.” His fingers itched to grab the wine glass again, but he resisted.  
   
Robert looked him over, eyes keen. He adjusted his signature cloak. “Saw you dancin’ with Jo.”  
   
Castiel could do nothing but incline his head. “She insisted.”  
   
“I noticed,” Robert returned dryly. They stood in silence for a moment, then Robert said, “I have a sense for what Michael might’ve asked of you, aside from learning from my hunters.”  
   
Castiel stilled. His heart rate began to speed up.  
   
Robert continued, “Which, I suppose I understand, though that doesn’t mean I have to like it.” He fixed Castiel with a look. “Just remember, my niece has her own will,” he said. “She’ll not be swayed by any false promises.”  
   
Castiel found his voice again. “My Lord,” he said, “I swear to you. I have absolutely no…untoward intentions towards Lady Joanna. I—” his voice caught. “I could never. I would never.”  
   
Robert turned to look at him more fully, his gaze openly assessing this time. “No,” he said slowly, as he took in all of Castiel, from the red in his cheeks to the sweat staining his blue silk shirt, “I don’t suppose you could.”  
   
He didn’t quite sag in relief, but it was a near thing.  
   
“Oh, a word of advice, Castiel,” Robert said, as he drunk the last of his wine and set the empty glass on the table.  
   
“Yes, my Lord?”  
   
“Now, I suppose all’s fair in love and war, but like I said, my niece has her own mind.” He turned his head to glance at something on the dance floor. Castiel followed the line of his gaze. His eyes widened as he realized that the king was staring at Dean. “They were very close as children,” he said. “And my niece holds a great deal of regard for him. You may not be without competition.”  
   
Castiel sucked in a breath. “I see,” he managed. “Thank you, my Lord.”  
   
“Just laying it all out.” Robert took another glass, and raised it to Castiel in a toast. “Enjoy the party.”  
   
He strode away, cloak flapping. Castiel immediately reached for his abandoned wineglass and finished it off. That done, he covered his face with his hands.  
   
In no possible way could this mad circle of affections end well.  
 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was pretty sure he was going insane because Castiel, that bastard, did not make any sense.  
   
Freshly returned from their morning lesson, Dean paced back and forth across the rug, gesticulating wildly, while Sam watched with an ever-suffering expression.  
   
“One minute he’s joking, the next he’s as stiff as stone with about as much personality!” Dean spread his arms wide. “I never know how he’s going to react to something I say, or do.”  
   
“He is from Eden,” Sam reminded him. “He’s probably just as confused as you are.” He brandished his book. “Maybe if you actually knew anything about _his_ people you wouldn’t be feeling so blindsided.” He flopped back onto Dean’s bed and folded his arms across his face.  
   
But Dean wasn’t done yet. “And just yesterday he was _completely_ flirting with Jo, I’d swear it until my dying day, but whenever she actually got near him, he clammed up faster than a sworn sister!” Dean threw himself onto the bed next to Sam, scowling. Sam, jostled unexpectedly, gave him a halfhearted poke in the side.  
   
“Have you considered, I don’t know, talking to him about it?”  
   
“I can’t do that!” Dean exclaimed, looking scandalized. “Besides,” he said, voice more subdued now. “If I fuck it all up somehow, we’ll still be stuck hunting together for who knows how long. I can’t risk that.” He hesitated. “And I _do_ like him,” he admitted. “Though I swear I’ll never understand half the stuff that goes on in his head, he’s not so bad.”  
   
Sam nodded. “Castiel’s not technically a hunter,” he pointed out. “You sure you need to worry so much?”  
   
Dean shook his head. “He might as well be. Rufus has been talking about putting him on patrol soon. It’s not even been two months and already he’s nearly better than Garth on a horse.”  
   
“Garth’s not a good example.”  
   
“Yeah, well.” Dean stretched his arms back over his head, ignoring Sam’s irritated huff when he was elbowed in the ribs. Sam squirmed away.  
   
“Dean, I’m trying to read.”  
   
“Maybe he’s shy,” Dean theorized. He brought his hands back down to rest together on top of his stomach, frowning. “He has seemed to relax a bit, ever since his uncle’s gone. Or maybe he doesn’t want to offend Jo. Or me.” He thought about that for a moment. “Well, no, probably not me.”  
   
“You’re worried about offending him.”  
   
“Am not.”  
   
“Are too.”  
   
“Not.”  
   
That time, Sam didn’t even bother to answer. Dean shifted onto his side to face him, plucking Sam’s book from his hands.  
   
“What do you think?”  
   
“I think you should give me my book back.” Sam grabbed for it, but Dean held it out of his reach. “Dean!”  
   
There was a knock at the door. Heaving a sigh, Dean rolled off the edge of the bed and got to his feet. He chucked the book back at Sam, who caught it, glaring at him. The knock sounded again.  
   
“All right, all right!” Dean called. “I’m coming.” He dragged himself over, and tugged open the door, coming face to face with one of the new pages. She blinked up at him.  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“Sir, a message came for you,” she said. “I’ve been asked to deliver it.”  
   
Dean leaned against the door jam, arms crossed. She continued to stand there, fidgeting a little with the frayed hem of her red shirt. Dean raised his eyebrows. “Well? Go on.”  
   
The page flushed. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small slip of rolled parchment, tied together with a red string—the sort of message one would attach to a bird, in fact. He took it from her.  
   
“Thanks,” he said, already undoing the string. “You can go now,” he added. As the page bowed and beat a hasty retreat, Dean let the door shut again. He unrolled the parchment with his fingers, and squinted at it.  
   
Sam struggled to sit up. “What is it?”  
   
“It’s from Benny.” Dean headed back towards the bed, sitting on the side. He handed the message over to Sam. “Here.”  
   
Nest nearby. Come visit. Bring friends.  
   
Sam looked up from the message. “Vampires?”  
   
“Looks like.” Dean was already across the room, lacing up his boots. “I’ll have to let Rufus know. Benny usually knows what’s up. If he’s sending us something, it’s definitely our kind of job.”  
   
“Why do his messages always have to be so cryptic?” Sam complained. He put his book aside and stood. “He doesn’t even tell you where they are or how many or anything.”  
   
“Vamps aren’t stupid, Sammy,” Dean reminded him. He shrugged on a cloak. “And birds aren’t infallible. There’s always a chance they’ll notice a bird and catch it. We’ll get up to Benny’s place and he’ll tell us the rest there.”  
   
Sam’s lips thinned. “I still can’t believe you trust him.” Dean just shook his head.  
   
“He’s saved my ass more than a few times. You need to get over yourself.”  
   
“Dean, he’s a _vampire_.”  
   
“You don’t have to trust him, Sammy. You just have to trust me. All right?”  
   
Sam scowled at him, but was thankfully silent the rest of the route to the barracks.  
   
Rufus didn’t seem too surprised at Benny’s message. He tucked it into a drawer and crossed one leg over the other, tapping his chin. “We’ve been hearing about something down that ways,” he said finally. He began searching through his other drawers while Sam and Dean watched. “Your boy’s message just confirms it. Ah, here.” He pulled out a large map.  
   
Dean leaned over it. “Benny’s homestead is here,” he said, pointing at a small island in the middle of a thick line of blue.  
   
“I know where he lives, Winchester,” Rufus said irritably. He produced a pair of spectacles, squinting at the map. “You’ll have to make a stop at Ash’s place. That swamp ain’t gonna tolerate horses.”  
   
Even though he had been expecting that answer ever since he’d realized that Benny had been the one to send the message, Dean’s face fell. “Fine,” he said, not at all sullenly.  
   
Rufus laughed at him, voice hoarse from whiskey. “On the bright side, here’s the chance for Castiel to prove himself. No horse _and_ it’s on the river. It’s damn near a perfect hunt for him.”  
   
Dean still looked a little miffed that he wouldn’t be allowed to bring along Impala, but he nodded instead. He tapped the location of Benny’s homestead with his finger. “He said to bring friends. So we’ll need about a company.”  
   
Rufus tilted his head thoughtfully. “If it’s Benny’s tip, you can’t be taking Gordon. I’m afraid your friend wouldn’t appreciate having his head chopped off as soon as he opened the door.” He drummed his fingers against his forehead. “Issac and Tamara,” he said finally. “Garth.” He pursed his lips. “Tara. And Castiel.”  
   
“Garth is going to die,” Dean predicted.  
   
“Garth can handle himself just fine.” Rufus folded the map back up and handed it to Dean. “Take this.”  
   
“Not if Tara kills him first.”  
   
“ _Dean_ ,” Rufus said. He thumbed toward the window. “Daylight’s wasting. You need to get down to Ash’s so you can leave early tomorrow. Y’all don’t want to show up at Benny’s after sunset.”  
   
Dean cast a sideways glance at Sam. “What about…”  
   
“No.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“No, Dean. He’s not of age, he’s not in the hunter corps. Sorry, Sam.” Rufus nodded towards him. “I know you’ve been hunting with that daddy of yours soon as you could hold a knife, but here we’ve got to play by the rules.”  
   
“No, that’s fine. I understand. I wasn’t—”  
   
“Rufus, you never play by the rules!”  
   
Rufus closed his eyes, massaging his temples. “Dean, I said no. When Sam turns sixteen, then the answer might change. But until then? Stop goddamn asking.”  
   
In the face of his captain’s glower, Dean’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir,” he said. Rufus pointed towards the door.  
   
“Tell the rest of them what’s doing. I expect you to be gone come tomorrow morning. Anything goes wrong, you send one of Benny’s birds, you hear me?”  
   
“Yes, sir,” Dean repeated. He jerked his head towards the doorway, and Sam followed him out. Given that it was lunchtime and the barracks were more or less deserted, they headed for the soldier’s mess. Dean was uncharacteristically quiet.  
   
“I don’t mind, Dean,” Sam said after a moment. “I really don’t.”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean kicked at a stone. “It still sucks though. You’re as good of a hunter as any of them.”  
   
“I’m not as experienced.”  
   
That’s horseshit and you know it.”  
   
Sam sighed. “Are you going to take Castiel to Ash’s place?” he asked.  
   
“Why would I?”  
   
“He’s a Novak, isn’t he? He’d probably like to see it.”  
   
From the look on Dean’s face, he hadn’t considered that. Sam felt a twinge of relief as Dean’s lips curved upward. “That’s actually not a bad idea, Sammy.”  
   
Sam shrugged. “Just thought he might be interested. Maybe they can talk shop.”  
   
They reached the mess hall and ducked inside. The hunters were an easy group to spot, all jammed together at one end of the long tables closest to the door. They weren’t as neatly pressed as the actual soldiers (a source of much contention between Rufus and Victor), but they held themselves with the sort of relaxed wariness of a veteran who’s not entirely convinced about the local security.  
   
Dean strolled up to them to a chorus of shouts and boos, Sam glued to his shoulder.  
   
“Hey, Winchester,” Tamara said, as he pulled up next to her and Issac. “Heard you’ve been busy lately.”  
   
“It’s not so bad.” Dean pulled out his charming grin. It had little affect on Tamara, who just raised her eyebrows at him.  
   
“I’ll bet. That Novak isn’t half bad to look at.”  
   
Dean coughed. “Yeah, well. He’s not bad with a knife either. Rufus is sending him along on the next job.”  
   
“Already?” she looked skeptical. “It’s kind of soon, don’t you think?”  
   
Isaac leaned in. “What’s the job?”  
   
“Something with Benny.”  
   
“Ah.” They all cast a simultaneous glance in Gordon’s direction, then squished in closer, heads together.  
   
After an uncomfortable pause, where they all sort of eyed each other, they separated.  
   
“Maybe we ought to take this outside,” Tamara suggested.  
   
“Good idea.” Dean pulled himself off the bench. He signaled to Tara, who made a quizzical face, but quickly got the message when Tamara and Isaac stood as well. Dean scanned the room, but saw no sign of Garth. Oh well. He wasn’t exactly hard to find. Dean would catch him sometime before tomorrow morning. Sam gave him a sideways look, eyeing the other hunters.  
   
“I’m going to go back,” he said.  
   
Dean was still glancing around distractedly. “All right. If you see him, tell Cas what’s up, would you? Tell him to meet me.”  
   
“Where?”  
   
“Um.” Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “At the front gates, I guess. Since we’re going down to Ash’s place.”  
   
Sam nodded.  
   
“Appreciate it.” Dean clapped his shoulder. Sam staggered a little.  
   
“Ow,” he complained, rubbing it.  
   
“See you later, little brother,” Dean said, saluting him. Sam made a face at him before turning around, heading off across the courtyard.

 

#

 

Castiel wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when Samuel Winchester stopped him in the library to tell him that Dean needed to speak to him. Whatever it was, and Castiel’s predictions ran the gamut from a battle for Lady Jo’s honor to another speech about Impala’s care and feeding, it wasn’t to see Dean lounging by the gates out of uniform and toting a large rucksack.  
   
“There you are!” Dean waved at him as soon as he noticed Castiel coming towards him. Castiel hesitantly returned the greeting. “I was about to get up and come looking for you.”  
   
“I apologize if I am late,” Castiel began, but Dean shook his head.  
   
“No, it’s fine. Thought you might be interested to see this, is all.”  
   
“See what?”  
   
Dean began to lead the way out of the castle grounds. “I just got a message about a hunt,” he said.  
   
“A hunt?”  
   
“Yeah.” As he spoke, Dean suddenly veered off the main road into the trees. “It’s kind of a special case. Anyway, Rufus thought we’d make it your maiden voyage.” He grinned. “So to speak.”  
   
“Oh,” said Castiel. He frowned. “Are you sure that my horsemanship’s up to standard? I don’t want to be a danger to the other hunters.”  
   
Dean adjusted his rucksack. “Your horsemanship is coming along fine.” He stepped delicately over a mushroom studded log, Castiel at his heels. “But you don’t have to worry about that for this one.”  
   
Castiel’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t understand.”  
   
“”See the thing is,” Dean ducked under a low hanging branch, holding it so Castiel could pass through as well, “our tip came from my friend Benny. And Benny lives in a swamp.”  
   
“A swamp?” Castiel wrinkled his nose.  
   
“Unfortunately,” Dean agreed. “So, no horses this time.”  
   
Castiel snorted. “So after spending weeks drilling me about the deep and crucial bond between a hunter and his horse, you’re telling me that we’re not even bringing horses on this hunt?”  
   
“Look at the mouth on you,” Dean muttered. He rolled his eyes. “Yes, Cas. That’s what I’m telling you. All hunts are different. I thought you’d like this one.”  
   
It was the tone of Dean’s voice, more so than his words, that tipped Castiel off. “Why?” he said suspiciously.  
   
“Because.” Dean stepped into a clearing. On the far end of it sat a fat wooden cabin, next to a decently sized stream. “We have to take a boat.”  
   
Not expecting that, Castiel blinked. “A boat.”  
   
“Well,” Dean said as they walked up to the cabin. Dean smacked on the door. “Probably two. There aren’t enough of us for one of the long ones—smallest one of those would need maybe fifteen or sixteen. And we’re only sending one company. Hey, Ash!” Dean banged on the door again. “It’s Dean!”  
   
The door creaked open. A man in a ragged pair of trousers and a poorly sewn shirt stood there, scratching what had to be a few days’ worth of stubble. His hair was oddly cut, like he had done it himself. He squinted sleepily at his visitors, then seemed to shake himself into wakefulness.  
   
“Dean.” The man pointed at him. “I’m guessing you’re after my genius again.” He eyed Castiel. “And friend.” He spoke slowly, his accent somewhat similar to Dean’s, Castiel realized, and concluded that Ash must have been born further inland than Singing Falls as well.  
   
“Cas, this is Ash. He’s a genius. Ash, this is Castiel.”  
   
“Hello,” said Castiel.  
   
Dean pushed his way in. “How’s it been going?”  
   
“Oh, you know.” Ash lifted one dismissive shoulder. “It goes.” He ran his hand through his hair, then fixed Dean with a stare. “What are your needs today, my friend?”  
   
Dean leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I need to get down to the swamps. What do you have?”  
   
Ash gave Castiel another long look, then with a flip of his hair, padded back into the house. “You’ve come to the right place. I’ve been working on something new. Very nice.”  
   
Castiel cautiously stepped inside. The cabin had few windows, and was mostly bare, save for a mattress and a few tables. The whole place had a dingy sort of smell. Dean and Ash headed towards the back. As Castiel followed them, he stepped out of another door, and into another clearing where he saw—  
   
“See, told you Cas,” Dean said, clapping him on the back. “Boats.”  
   
Castiel looked around in surprise. In the back behind Ash’s cabin were at least six boats in various stages of completion. They were all different sizes, with the smallest one barely longer than Castiel was tall, to another that looked long enough to seat thirty. Unable to stop himself, he went up to examine the one closest, passing his hand over the wood. It was symmetrical from end to end, and he could see that it had been clinker-built, with planks overlapping together to form the hull.  
   
Ash nodded to him. “You like boats?”  
   
“Cas is a Novak,” Dean told him, coming up to stand next to him. He ran his hands over the hull of the boat as well. “Thought he’d want to look around.”  
   
Ash spun around. “A Novak!” he said. He smiled lazily at Castiel, arms outspread. “What do you think?”  
   
“They are very different from the ships we build,” Castiel said honestly, “but I can see the appeal. Are they primarily meant for shallow water?”  
   
“Well.” Ash stroked his chin. “The big ones are seaworthy,” he said, pointing. “They can go as deep as you like. But you can take ‘em up river too. Smaller ones I’d hug the coastline, or stay in the bay.”  
   
Castiel nodded. He could see that the relative narrowness and flatness of the craft in question would make rowing up river a relatively simple process.  
   
“They are of course my own design,” Ash said, with a little bow. Castiel’s eyebrows shot up at that.  
   
“Like I said,” Dean murmured, “a genius.”  
   
Ash jerked his head in the direction of the castle. “Yon King asked me to figure out a better way to get people through the Straits without going the long way around.” He paused, swiping under his nose, and leaned in towards Dean. “Do you mind I told him that?”  
   
Dean shut his eyes momentarily. “No, it’s fine.”  
   
“What kind of sail do they take?” Castiel asked hastily.  
   
Ash cracked his neck. “I’ll show you.” He beckoned to them. After a moment’s hesitation, Castiel stepped away from the boat he was looking at to trail after him. Dean followed close behind, hands in his pockets.  
   
He took them down a rocky, slippery path towards the water. At the far end of it, perched next to some rocks, was a little dock. Moored next to the dock was another one of Ash’s creations. Castiel stopped and stared. It was maybe twenty feet long, with one large square sail, and the whole craft was again, symmetrical back to front. He supposed that would be a useful feature if needing to turn around in narrow waters. The emblem on the sail was the same as King Robert’s flag. At what Castiel assumed was the bow, the prow was carved into the shape of a snarling wolf.  
   
Dean stopped dead. “Oh, wow,” he said. He turned to Ash. “You didn’t say she was finished!”  
   
Ash thumbed towards the boat. “Will this do for you, Dean?”  
   
Dean licked his lips. “How many does she take?”  
   
“She’s set for eight rowers, but you should be able to manage her with six going up the river.” Ash shrugged. “If you want.” He flicked his fingers back in the direction of his cabin. “Better than taking two of the little ones.”  
   
“Oh I want,” Dean said. And Castiel couldn’t help but agree with him, though he did have one question. He turned to Dean.  
   
“Do hunters know how to handle a ship like this?”  
   
Dean gave him a dirty look. Ash laughed.  
   
“Your friend is funny.” He clapped Castiel on the back. “I like you.”  
   
“Yeah he’s a real riot,” Dean muttered. He rotated his shoulders. “Does she handle like the other ones?”  
   
“Better,” Ash promised.  
   
Dean turned to Castiel. “We’ll be all right.” Castiel still looked a little doubtful, so Dean grinned. “ _Trust_ me, Cas, would you?”  
   
“I do,” Castiel said stiffly.  
   
“Well all right then.” Dean nodded to the boat. “We’ll be here tomorrow morning.”  
   
Ash nodded slowly. “Can do. Do you have payment?”  
   
In response, Dean hefted the bag. Castiel heard the clink of glass. Ash’s eyes lit up.  
   
“You are an excellent human being,” he informed Dean, taking the rucksack from him and handling it with delicacy. “I will even do you the courtesy of being awake tomorrow morning to see you off.”  
   
“Appreciate it,” Dean said dryly. “See you tomorrow, Ash.”  
   
   
#

 

As it turned out, the modestly sized stream behind Ash’s cabin served as one of the tributaries to the wide and slow Lawrence River. The night before they left for the hunt, Dean showed Castiel the route on the map.  
   
“The Lawrence empties into Great Moon Bay here.” He pointed south of Singing Falls, where a thick blue line abruptly truncated at the sea. “But we’re going to meet it here,” he showed Castiel a spot a little bit upstream, where a tiny line of blue met a much thicker one, “and take her east.”  
   
Castiel studied the map. “Towards the mountains?”  
   
“Yeah. Look, the Lawrence starts as two rivers, and they meet about halfway between here and the mountains.” Dean tapped the spot in question. “We’ll take the southern branch—that’s the South Lawrence—down to Benny’s place.” Dean traced the river down and stopped.  
   
“And this is where Benny is?” Castiel cocked his head to the side. The area of the map where Benny lived looked very wide and green.  
   
“Yeah. The swamp’s to the side. Benny lives in the middle.”  
   
“The middle of the swamp?”  
   
Dean laughed. “No. Here.” He indicated. “On the island.”  
   
“Oh.” The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitched. “I see why we cannot take horses.”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean blew out air from between his cheeks. He shrugged. “It happens.”  
   
“And what are we hunting?” Castiel asked, as Dean folded up the map. He stuck it underneath his arm.  
   
“What? Oh.” Dean reached behind his head to rub at his neck, looking sheepish. “I thought I told you. It’s a nest. Vampires.”  
   
“Vampires,” Castiel repeated. He rolled the term around in his mind. “Cut off the head,” he said, after a moment.  
   
Dean grinned at him. “Very good.”  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “How long should we expect to be there?”  
   
At the question, Dean pursed his lips. “Hopefully not more than three days,” he said. “We should get to Benny’s by dusk tomorrow, and we’ll hole up there for the night. Then we’ll do recon during the day, when the vamps aren’t awake, attack during the day to take care of the nest. All going well, we’ll leave the next morning.”  
   
True to Dean’s prediction, they arrived at Benny’s homestead just as the sky to the west began to turn pink. When it was sighted, Castiel exhaled in relief. While he had spent the majority of his life on one ship or another, Ash’s creations were of a different ilk. Castiel stretched extended his hands and bent his fingers, trying to work out the kinks. He prodded at a blister forming next to his right thumb; he wasn’t used to rowing upstream for such a prolonged period, either. Dean caught his grimace.  
   
“The way back won’t be so bad,” he said. Castiel gave him a thoroughly displeased look. Dean smirked. “At least it’s downstream.”  
   
“At least my body would have been used to the horse,” Castiel grumbled as the boat shored up on Benny’s island. The rest of the hunters splashed into the ankle-deep water of the river, and Castiel managed to un-cramp his legs long enough to do the same. They pulled the boat further up, then lifted it onto their shoulders to march up the slope of the island to a small copse of trees, where the boat was put down again and covered with a few branches.  
   
The island itself was relatively small, and sat nearly at the exact center of the river. Past the trees where they had hidden the boat, Castiel could see what he assumed must be Benny’s house. As they approached, he noticed that it looked a little bit unusual. When they got close enough for Dean to step forward and knock, Castiel realized why: Benny’s house was actually on stilts, with the ground floor set about five or so feet above the actual ground. In order to knock, Dean was forced to climb several stairs.  
   
With barely a second of delay, the door banged open. A large burly man poked his head out. As soon as he saw who was on his doorstep, he opened the door the rest of the way, and he and Dean caught each other in a quick embrace.  
   
“Hey, Brother!” Benny crowed, slapping Dean on the back. “You made it quick.”  
   
Dean shrugged, stepping back, but Castiel could see that he was smiling widely. “Didn’t have anything better to do.”  
   
At that, Benny chuckled. As he did so, Castiel could see the flash of teeth. _Pointed_ teeth. Castiel’s jaw dropped. He turned to Garth.  
   
“Dean’s friend Benny is a vampire?” he said flatly.  
   
“Oh yes.” Garth bobbed his head, cheerful as ever. After a full day rowing next to him on the boat, Castiel ground his teeth.  
   
“A vampire,” he repeated.  
   
“Oh, but he’s totally trustworthy,” Garth added hastily, waving at Benny, who returned it with one of his own. “No, really,” he said to Castiel’s extremely skeptical look. “Ask Dean. Benny’s saved his life at least twice that I know about. They go way back.”  
   
“But what does he _eat_?” Castiel hissed.  
   
“Rodent, mostly,” Benny said. He stepped down the stairs. “Some squirrel. Some rat. Rabbit when I’m lucky.”  
   
Standing in front of him, Castiel realized that physically, Benny was much larger than he’d thought, but Castiel didn’t back down.  
   
“That can’t possibly be satiating enough for you.”  
   
Benny stilled. Then, after a moment of studying Castiel, his chin stuck out and arms crossed, he threw his head back in a laugh. “Benny Lafite,” he said, sticking out his hand. Warily Castiel took it. “I like you,” he declared. He turned towards Dean, thumbing towards Castiel. “This one’s funny.”  
   
Back on the stairs, Dean brought his palm to his head. “Yeah, he’s a real comedian,” he said, voice dry. “Castiel, Benny. Benny, that’s Castiel. He’s new. Everyone else you already know.”  
   
There was a chorus of hellos. Benny gestured them all inside. “Come on,” he said, eyes on the sinking sun. “Ya’ll don’t want to be hanging around outside after dark.”  
   
Much to Castiel’s surprise, Benny’s house was fairly habitable—certainly more so than Ash’s. The wooden floors were clean and swept, and the whole thing was partitioned into two rooms. The main room was large, with dried reed mats and some cushions on the side, and a fire pit for cooking in the middle.  
   
“That’s for my guests,” Benny said, noticing Castiel’s perplexed expression, adding that the second, smaller room functioned mostly as storage. “The outhouse is in the back,” he added. “Not too far.”  
   
After the very brief tour, the hunters and Benny settled themselves around the center of the room, while Benny explained why he had sent for them.  
   
“They’ve been picking off travelers, far as I can tell,” Benny said. He reclined against one of the cushions. “I found a boat not too far upstream. Boat looked fine, and still had a lot of the stuff in there, so I know it weren’t regular bandits, but the people were gone.”  
   
Hands resting on his knees, Dean leaned forward. “Did you investigate?”  
   
“Sure did.” Benny stretched his legs out, scratching at his knee. “There’s a nest all right. No one I know, so far as I can tell. They’ve gotta be new, since they’re so sloppy.”  
   
Tamara tilted her head. “How many?”  
   
Benny frowned, lips parting a little as he counted. “Maybe about twelve or fifteen?” he said after a moment. “They’re holed up in the old mill, about a mile into the swamp.”  
   
“Why is there a mill in a swamp?” Castiel asked, before he could stop himself.  
   
The rest of the hunters exchanged glances. “Weren’t always a swamp,” Benny said, after a moment. “The way the legend goes, when your man Colt and his clans fled west, Colt did something that flooded the area there, to keep the demons off their trail. It was already pretty low, so I guess the water just stuck around. And voila,” he smacked the floor, “swamp.”  
   
Castiel sat back. “That wasn't in any of the literatures,” he said, mostly to himself. Benny’s brow furrowed.  
   
“Literatures?”  
   
“Cas is visiting to train with the hunters,” Dean said. “He’s an Easterner.”  
   
“Technically, my father’s lands are directly north, along the coastline.”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Fine. A northeasterner, then. Eden’s still east of us.”  
   
Castiel narrowed his eyes at him, but settled back anyway.  
   
On the other side of the circle, Benny got to his feet. “You’ll be checking it out tomorrow?” he asked.  
   
Dean stood as well. “That’s the plan.”  
   
Benny nodded. “All right. I’ll leave you to sleep.” He grinned again, teeth flashing. “I expect most of you wouldn’t sleep well with me in the room.”  
   
“Naw, Benny. We know you’re a teddy bear,” Garth told him, but Castiel noticed that the rest of the hunters looked slightly more at ease when informed that Benny would not be sharing the room with them.  
   
The hunters set out their sleeping rolls. Castiel found himself near the wall, next to Dean’s.  
   
“How did you meet Benny?” he asked, tucking the corners of his blankets.  
   
“It’s a long story.” Dean toed off his boots. “The short version is that Benny was a pirate. Then he got bit, and was a _vampire_ pirate.” Dean grinned at Castiel’s startled expression, then his face grew more serious. “Somewhere in there he started to grow a sort of, conscience, I guess. Just, sick of the killing and all, and his crew betrayed him. When we met, we were chasing down the same group of vamps—his old crew—and sort of…” he gestured, “joined forces, you could say.” Dean shrugged. “He’s proved his worth a dozen times over. I’m _mostly_ certain he won’t eat me.”  
   
Castiel stared at him. “If that’s the short version, the long one must be even more unbelievable.”  
   
Dean snorted. “Some day when I’m really drunk maybe I’ll tell it to you.”  
   
Castiel snuggled into his blankets. “I look forward to it.”  
   
It may have been a trick of the light, but Castiel could have sworn that Dean flushed. “Yeah, well. Remember I said _really_ drunk.” He rose, adjusting his shirt, and reaching for the cloak he had discarded earlier, clasping it to one shoulder.  
   
Castiel propped himself up on an elbow. “Where are you going?”  
   
“Going to keep Benny company for a little while.” Dean nodded towards the door. “We always spend some time talking, when I come by.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel blew out a breath. “Good night then, Dean.”  
   
“Good night.” Dean shut the door behind him.  
   
Castiel closed his eyes, listening to the gentle murmur of Dean and Benny’s voices as he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.  
   
   
   
 


	5. Chapter 5

Vampires, Castiel decided, were terrible.  
   
He stood in the center of the dilapidated mill, covered in gore, willing his fingers to unclench from his knives. Outside, Tara and Isaac were building a pyre, while Tamara and Garth scouted the perimeter. The mid-afternoon sun shone faintly through the cracks in the boarded up windows.  
   
A gentle hand touched his elbow. Castiel went rigid, then relaxed, recognizing Dean’s presence.  
   
“You going to be all right there, Cas?”  
   
Castiel slowly rotated to face him. “I suppose I had forgotten the messiness of hand to hand combat.” He sniffed his arm and made a face. “This is disgusting, I need a bath,” he declared, startling a laugh out of Dean.  
   
“Benny’s got a little tub behind his house if you don't mind it cold,” he said. He shook his head at Castiel’s clearly disgruntled expression. “You’re kind of spoiled, you know that?”  
   
Castiel ignored him, cleaning off his knives as best he could before sheathing them again. He bent down to grab at one of the bodies. Dean grabbed the other side, and together they hauled it out to the pyre, tossing it on top.  
   
“Don’t throw it,” Tara said. “You’ll collapse our pyre.”  
   
“It’s fine.” Dean sent her a winsome smile.  
   
Tara scowled at him. “It collapses, you get to build it again.”  
   
“Whatever you say,” Dean agreed. He jerked his head in the direction of the mill. “Come on, we still got about twelve more of those suckers in there.”  
   
“Was that supposed to be a pun?” Castiel queried as they walked back inside. He spotted another vampire and, a little further along, what looked like its head.  
   
“Absolutely not,” said Dean, straight faced.  
   
Castiel sent him a doubtful look, then gestured towards the vampire’s corpse. “Do we burn the heads separately?”  
   
“No, why would we?”  
   
Castiel pursed his lips. “Won’t they roll off the pyre?”  
   
“Not if we stake them they won’t.”  
   
“That’s disgusting.”  
   
“You asked.”  
   
Together, they lifted another body and bore it out the door. At Tara’s warning look, they dumped it much more gently onto the pile. Dean brushed off his hands.  
   
“I didn’t think you’d be so squeamish,” he said. He raised his hands defensively as Castiel swung around to glare at him. “I’m not trying to be rude. But weren’t you a soldier? Didn’t you see a lot of combat?”  
   
Castiel was quiet for a moment. “I did,” he said, finally. Dean waited. Castiel glanced away, up towards the tree line, then back down to the ground. “I wasn’t always…squeamish,” he said. He looked quickly over at Dean, as if weighing his response. “Some things can change you.”  
   
Their eyes caught and held. Dean’s dropped to the ground. “Yeah,” he said, voice oddly scratchy. “I get it.”

  
#  
   
   
Benny received the news that the hunters had done their job with a solemn nod and a quick glance in the direction of the swamp. Even from Benny’s island, rising smoke from the pyre was clearly visible above the tree line, but they were assured that it was unlikely anyone would go investigate. If they did, Benny would take care of it. He offered them a second night of hospitality, which Dean accepted on behalf of everyone, and which they all proceeded to spend much more jovially than the night previous.  
   
Apparently, Castiel learned, vampires could still drink alcohol. They just needed a lot more of it.  
   
Castiel did his level best to keep up with Benny’s libations. He wasn’t entirely certain why he was compelled to do so, but each new cup brought with it a growing awareness of Dean’s eyes on him, Dean’s warmth behind him, and Dean’s expression twisting with greater and greater amusement as the night wore on. Castiel accepted every drink offered to him.  
   
Of course, he paid for it the next morning, when the entire droopy-eyed crew slogged their way down to the boat and shoved it into the river. Through his pounding headache, Castiel supposed that he ought to be grateful that they were travelling downstream this time, but all he could really focus on was the nausea twisting through his gut at the gentle rocking motions of the boat as it cut through the water.  
   
Dean whistled as Castiel suddenly leaned over the side of the boat and heaved. “You were really something last night, Cas.”  
   
“Was I?” Castiel wiped at the sides of his mouth with his sleeve, grimacing. He _never_ got seasick. Did this count?  
   
“Oh yeah. Never seen anyone actually _try_ and keep up with Benny before.”  
   
“You couldn’t have told me that…” Castiel’s head disappeared over the side again “…before?”  
   
“I really didn’t think I would need to.” Dean patted him on the back. Castiel groaned in response. “Don’t worry,” Dean told him, shading his eyes against the bright sunlight, “it’s only about eight more hours until we get back.”  
   
That time, Castiel’s groan was a great deal more despairing.  
   
Despite Castiel’s discomfort, the day seemed to drift by fairly quickly. Every once in a while, Castiel was pulled out of his funk to pay attention to some variety of bird, or a family of river otters, or anything else Dean deemed important. And there was a memorable twenty minutes during which Castiel was forced to listen to Tara go on about the medicinal values of the apparently rare flowers of the apparently rare tree they were passing under, but that was an outlier. Soon enough, and really before Castiel had quite realized where they were, they had taken a turn into a smaller river, and were paddling upstream again, towards Ash’s cabin.  
   
The man himself was outside when they bumped into the makeshift dock. Out of pure habit, Castiel was the first one off, leaping onto the dock with considerably less grace than he was accustomed to, and tying a set of secure knots. As the rest of the crew climbed out, Ash came down to inspect Castiel’s handiwork. Castiel crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow as he did so, but relaxed infinitesimally when he received a nod of approval.  
   
At this point, Castiel was feeling a great deal more improved from the morning. So much so that, rather than feeling irate that they technically had yet to reach the castle, he rather relished the opportunity to stretch his legs after being cramped in the boat for several hours. He was also greatly looking forward to a proper bath and then perhaps spending the rest of the evening in quiet repast, so he was surprised when Dean laid his hand on his shoulder soon after they passed through the castle gates.  
   
“You’ll be back down in an hour?”  
   
Castiel squinted. “For what purpose?”  
   
Garth laughed. “For what. Castiel.” He slung an arm over Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel stiffened immediately. “We just came back from a successful hunt! And your _first_ successful hunt. It’s tradition. You have to honor tradition.” He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, while the rest of the hunters nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched.  
   
“What,” Castiel repeated, feeling like he had somehow missed something of great importance. “What tradition?”  
   
Isaac stepped in. “If you’re going to hunt demons you need protection.”  
   
In response, Castiel held up the charm he had purchased that day with Gabriel. To his surprise, this time all of the hunters gave at least a bit of a chuckle, shaking their heads.  
   
“That’s for civilians,” Tamara said. “Hunters need something more.”  
   
By this point, Castiel had managed to disentangle himself from Garth’s surprisingly strong grip. He rotated to face Dean, who was now biting his lip, obviously trying to hold in a laugh. Castiel scowled.  
   
“Dean?”  
   
Dean wiggled his eyebrows. “One of these,” he said cheerfully, and proceeded to pull up his shirt. Castiel immediately went bright red. It was another moment before he had the chance to realize that Dean wasn’t actually stripping naked in the middle of the courtyard. Rather, he was pointing to something on his chest. Several seconds passed, while Castiel tried to process what he was seeing. His eyes widened.  
   
“A tattoo?” he said, voice faint. He looked at the rest of the hunters, who were now all removing various items of clothing to reveal the same symbol etched onto their bodies. “You want me to get a tattoo?”  
   
“It’s an anti-possession symbol.” Dean’s tone was more serious now. “It’s a rite of passage for a new hunter to get one after their first hunt.”  
   
Castiel peered closer at the design, trying to ignore just how the muscles of Dean’s chest moved as he spoke. Finally, he straightened. “That’s the symbol on King Robert’s flag.”  
   
“Well, yeah,” Dean said. He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s a protection symbol.”  
   
Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea what my revered uncle would do to me if he finds out that I’ve tattooed the crest of a rival kingdom onto my body?”  
   
“Well, he’s not going to see you naked, is he?” Garth asked.  
   
Dean grinned. “Then you’ll just have to get it somewhere…subtle.”  
   
Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. This was a very, very bad idea. By all rights, he should refuse and continue relying on his little charm, rite of passage be damned. He should abandon this group of bad influences, go to his rooms, and have a nice cup of tea.  
   
“Come on, Cas.” Dean’s voice had a low, wheedling quality to it. Castiel swallowed.  
   
“If I’m jailed and slated to be hung for treason, you are responsible for retrieving me.” Castiel pointed a finger at him.  
   
“Of course I will,” Dean said, smiling again.  
   
Castiel shook his head. “I’m going to regret this,” he muttered, even as he mentally rearranged his evening plans to accommodate, of all things, a _tattoo_.  
   
“Nah.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “You won’t.”

  
#

 

Two hours later, Castiel decided to add _filthy liar_ to his mental list of terms that described Dean of Winchester.  
   
“I am going to kill you,” Castiel said through clenched teeth, gripping Dean’s hand as the tattoo artist poked yet another hole into the pale, soft skin just below his hipbone.  
   
Dean winced, though more at the crushing squeeze of Castiel’s fingers than at any sympathy for the tattooing itself. “You could have picked a less sensitive spot.”  
   
“We agreed— _damn_ —we agreed that this was the least likely place for Michael to— _fuck_ —to see it.”  
   
“Keep still, would you?” The artist’s mouth twisted. “Can’t risk ruining a protection symbol with you moving about.”  
   
“Sorry,” Castiel forced out.  
   
“Did you just say ‘fuck’?” Dean wondered. “You _never_ swear.”  
   
Castiel rolled his eyes, even as his breath hissed through his teeth. “Haven’t you ever heard that saying about the mouth of a sailor?”  
   
“Oh,” Dean said, leering, “I’ve heard a _lot_ about sailors’ mouths.” He licked his lips, pantomiming something with his free hand.  
   
Castiel stared at him.  
   
Dean turned and coughed into his shoulder. “So,” he said, “almost done now.”  
   
“Not even close,” said the artist. “I haven’t even shaded in the sun yet.”  
   
Dean grinned weakly even as Castiel glared. “I’ll buy you a pint afterwards,” he offered. “You know, to celebrate.”  
   
Castiel pressed his lips together. “Two pints.”  
   
“What, seriously? It’s just one tattoo.”  
   
“Two pints and a meal.”  
   
“Don’t be greedy.”  
   
Castiel raised his chin. “It’s your fault I haven’t had supper.”  
   
“You would’ve just thrown it up anyway. You threw up the entire way home.”  
   
“Just in the morning.”  
   
“Yes, because ten minutes outside Ash’s cabin was definitely still morning.”  
   
“It’s still your fault.”  
   
“Fine.” Dean heaved a sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Two pints and a meal.”  
   
“That’s very kind of you, Dean.” Castiel settled back, a small smile on his lips.  
   
“But in exchange, you have to stay in the city with us tonight.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “I had plans—”  
   
“Books and a cup of tea are not plans, Cas. Come on.” Dean extended his free hand towards the doorway. “You’ve barely been into the city the whole time you’ve been here. You might as well see it.”  
   
“That’s not— _ouch_.” Castiel paled a little as the tattoo artist traded in the needle he was using for another, larger one. “That’s not true. Gabriel and I went into the city a few times.”  
   
“During the day, Cas.” Dean gave him a meaningful look. “That’s not the same thing.”  
   
Castiel twitched as the tattoo artist resumed his work. “How long do these things usually take?”  
   
“Should be another hour or so at most,” the man replied, not looking up from Castiel’s hip. “Not that big of a design.”  
   
“See?” Dean put his hand on his hip. “Come on. We’ll get some food, see the sights…”  
   
“What sights?”  
   
“You know.” Dean shrugged. “The _sights._ ”  
   
There was silence for a moment, then Castiel’s eyes narrowed in comprehension. “I am _not_ going to the red light district,” he said flatly. “I avoided it with Gabriel, I have no wish to go there now.”  
   
Dean let out a huff. “Fine. How about the waterfall? You haven’t been there, have you?”  
   
Castiel’s eyebrows drew together. “Waterfall?”  
   
This time, Dean’s answering smile was wide and unrestrained. “It’s called Singing _Falls_ , Cas.” He poked Castiel lightly in the shoulder. Castiel started to tilt away, but froze at a pointed grunt from the artist at his side. He grimaced.  
   
“Stop that.”  
   
“Spoilsport.” Dean prodded him one last time, then withdrew. He leaned against the side of the table. “Didn’t your books ever talk about the falls?”  
   
“I suppose.” Castiel’s forehead scrunched up as he tried to recall. “They didn’t say much,” he admitted.  
   
“Well then,” Dean said, his gaze bright, “you’re in for a treat.”  
   
   
#

  
He really should have bartered for three pints, Castiel thought glumly, even if it probably would have made him ill again. As he shifted in his chair, his newly bandaged tattoo rubbed against his trousers, and Castiel bit back an oath. Inside the tavern, music was playing, though the crowd and the smoke made it difficult to distinguish the exact tune. His shoulders slumped a little.  
   
“Oh, come on, Cas.” Dean raised a glass to him. “Don’t be so morose. You look like your dog died, not like I’ve taken you to the tavern and paid for your beer.”  
   
“It’s very loud in here.” Castiel took another drink, and then set his tankard aside in favor of his…whatever-it-was, swimming in gravy. He eyed it for a moment, drooping on the edge of his fork, then bit down. He swallowed, and then his expression turned intrigued. “This isn’t actually too bad.”  
   
“Told you,” said Dean, who had been watching Castiel like a hawk throughout the entire process. Castiel told himself that Dean just wanted to make sure that he had a good time. “We always come here after a hunt. Best food below ground.”  
   
Castiel went for another bite. “Always?”  
   
“Well,” Dean grinned and shrugged, “any time no one’s ended up in the infirmary, that is.”  
   
“And how often does that happen?” Castiel’s voice was wry.  
   
Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not too bad, usually.” His cheeks turned a little pink as Castiel continued to give him the eye. “What? It’s a dangerous job. We all know what we’re signing up for.”  
   
This brought up a question that Castiel had been meaning to ask for some time. He set aside his fork and leaned forward, hands folded on top of the table. “How do people usually end up joining the hunter corps?”  
   
Dean sat back in his chair, his earlier carefree expression dropping into one that was a bit warier. “Why do you want to know?”  
   
“I’m curious.” Castiel gave him a frank look. “You’re from one of the most respected families in the country, and someone like Garth, well. He’s a commoner. Yet here you are, nearly equal in the hunter corps.” He shrugged. “It’s very different from Eden.”  
   
“It can’t be that different. You’re in Michael’s navy, aren’t you? Aren’t there people of all kinds on your crews?”  
   
“I’m not just a sailor, Dean.” Castiel polished off the last of his meal, and went back for his tankard. “I’m an officer. My birth gave me the ticket to Michael’s court, where I trained before my commission.”  
   
Dean’s face scrunched. “So all your officers are from noble families?”  
   
“Not all.” Castiel tilted his head, thinking. “No, not all,” he said again. “But the vast majority. Especially in the higher ranks.”  
   
“Did you _have_ to join?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel said, without any hesitation. His lips twitched at Dean’s almost affronted look. “I’m a Novak, remember?”  
   
“Oh, right.” Dean nodded. “What about if you hadn’t been?”  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
“You know.” Dean gestured. “If you’d been born in another noble family. Not the Novaks.”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “Then I supposed I would have taken whatever their traditional path was. Perhaps the army.”  
   
“Huh.” Dean placed his chin in his hands. “Any horse families like ours?”  
   
“A few.” Castiel smiled. “The horses are not as good as the ones your family breeds though, I’m not ashamed to admit.”  
   
“Of course not.”  
   
“You don’t have to be smug about it, Dean.”  
   
“I’m not being smug, Cas, I’m being honest.”  
   
Castiel rested his head against the wall next to him. He was feeling rather warm and full—comfortable, really, which probably contributed to his next words. “If I had the Novak Gift in any real sense of the word, I might have been given some leeway.” He sighed, draining his glass. “But I didn’t.” He raised his hand, thumb and forefinger a little ways apart to indicate. “Just enough to confirm my birthright. No more than that.”  
   
Dean was giving him an odd look. “The Novak Gift?”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel flushed. “Some members of my family have been fairly gifted healers.” He shrugged. “As it turned out, I wasn’t. Though I do have a second cousin who is quite the prodigy.”  
   
Dean’s mouth made an O. “I forgot about your noble families and their ‘Gifts’. I didn’t realize the Novak one was healing.”  
   
“We don’t tend to advertise.” Castiel’s lips twisted. “There’s more money to be made in shipbuilding than in healing the sick.”  
   
“So cynical.” Dean took a gulp of his beer. “Even being able to heal little things must be sort of useful.”  
   
“It’s not the size of the wound or…or the issue at hand,” Castiel explained. “It’s whether or not the process works at all.”  
   
“Well, how is it supposed to work?”  
   
Castiel’s gaze flickered away, down to the table and then back again. “Prayer.”  
   
“Prayer?” Dean snorted. When he saw that Castiel’s face remained serious however, his smile faded. “You’re not joking?”  
   
“Not at all.” Castiel’s shoulders caved inward. “The healing comes from God. When we pray to him, if our prayers move him sufficiently, then he grants us the power to heal.”  
   
Dean was still staring. “Prayer.”  
   
Castiel sighed. “Yes.”  
   
“But I don’t get it.” Dean scrubbed at his forehead. “I bet you can pray with the best of them. Surely you’re scholarly enough.”  
   
“It’s not whether humans approve of my prayer.” Castiel glanced up at the ceiling. “It is how God judges me. Most of the time it seems, I am unworthy.”  
   
Dean still seemed confused. “But why would you be unworthy?”  
   
Castiel looked to Dean, saw the way the light of the oil lamps reflected off his features, his lips, and the way his shirt was tailored to his shoulders. Beneath the table, he flexed his hand, remembering how Dean had allowed himself to be gripped when Castiel was under the needle. Castiel traced the pattered wood with one finger. “I don’t know,” he said.  
   
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” Dean declared.  
   
“It’s God’s will.”  
   
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Never would have taken you for a religious man.”  
   
Castiel, who knew how Robert’s people tended to regard religion as a whole, and definitely did not want to get into it with Dean, simply shrugged. “It’s who we are.”  
   
“Uh huh.” Dean still did not appear satisfied. He tapped the side of his tankard with his index finger. Castiel could tell he was thinking. He decided to head him off, before any more inquiries could come his way.  
   
“You never answered my question.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“About the hunter corps.” Castiel crossed his arms.  
   
“Oh.” Dean rolled his neck. “It’s not that interesting.”  
   
“I don’t believe you.”  
   
Dean straightened to give him an annoyed look. Then, seeing Castiel watching him, eyes intent, his expression sobered. “People usually join the hunters because of personal reasons.”  
   
“Personal reasons?” Castiel frowned. “Such as?”  
   
Dean shrugged, looking somewhere over Castiel’s left shoulder as he spoke, fingers still tapping away at the side of his tankard. “Usually a death in the family, or something like,” he said. “Demons, you know. Or a vampire—that’s why Gordon hates them so much, by the way.”  
   
“That’s why he wasn’t allowed on the hunt,” Castiel realized. “Because of Benny?”  
   
Dean nodded.  
   
“So then…” Castiel’s voice was hesitant. “Do you mind if I ask…?”  
   
“It was going to come up eventually,” Dean muttered. He pushed his beer away. “My father was a hunter,” he said to the table, “after my mother—well, Sam and mine—she was killed by a demon.”  
   
Castiel cocked his head slowly. “How old were you?” he asked, voice gentler than before.  
   
“Four.” Dean swallowed, not looking up. “I was four years old.”  
   
“And Sam would have been just an infant.” Castiel was nodding to himself. “That must have been very difficult for you.”  
   
“It’s not an unusual story.”  
   
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.”  
   
Dean stilled. “Yeah,” he said. “It wasn’t easy.” He glanced up and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sam was _such_ a whiner when we were kids.”  
   
Castiel gave him a look like he knew what Dean was trying to do. “What about your father? He’s not still in the hunter corps, is he?”  
   
“No.” Dean picked up his fork and stabbed halfheartedly at the remainder of his meal. “When he inherited the title, he left the hunters officially, but he still does freelance work. That’s where he is now, actually.”  
   
“What’s he hunting?”  
   
“Siren or something, last I heard. For all I know, he’s caught her and is after something new by now.” Dean pushed his chair back. “Do you still want to see the Falls?”  
   
Castiel, realizing that the conversation was closed for the moment, stood as well. “Of course,” he said. He turned to look in the direction he had last seen the rest of the their group. “Will they mind if we leave?”  
   
“Nah.” Dean gave a careless wave as they headed towards the exit, passing by Isaac and Tamara at one table. The pair were holding hands, speaking softly to each other. Castiel wondered what tragedy had touched their lives, to make them turn to the hunter corps. “We usually go and do our own thing after a few drinks together.”  
   
“I see.” They stepped outside the building. It was hard to tell the exact time, due to being inside the caves, but Castiel got the sense the sun had set some hours ago at the very least. The crowds present now were different than those he had seen before with Gabriel, during the middle of the day. Most people travelled in groups, going in and out of the pubs and some of the cafes, while the majority of the shops appeared to be closed.  
   
“This way.” Dean tugged at his elbow, leading him down one path. Unlike the roads on the surface, it wasn’t cobbled. Rather, the floor was the same as the rest of the cavern, with stones placed in long lines to indicate the width of the street, the entire thing smoothed down after years of being trodden upon.  
   
“It’s very lively down here at night,” Castiel commented, watching as a group left one tavern only to go straight into the one next door. “Even more so than during the day.”  
   
“It tends to be,” Dean agreed.  
   
“Do people still live down here? Or is it just shops?”  
   
Dean turned down another path. “When Samuel Colt first founded the city, it used to be everyone lived down here,” he said. “But after a while, Colt started building the castle above ground, and the richer people got tired of living below. So,” he shrugged, “mostly people without any money live down here now. If you can afford it, it’s better to live on the surface.”  
   
“In Eden, the poorer folk live in the lower tiers of the city,” Castiel said. “I suppose it's not so different.”  
   
“I guess not,” Dean said. He stopped, cupping his hand around his ear. “You hear that?”  
   
“What?” Castiel stepped closer to him, copying his motions.  
   
“That,” Dean said. “The roaring sound.”  
   
Now that Dean had pointed it out, Castiel could faintly hear something. It was lower than a whisper, seeming to vibrate below the cacophony of all the people in the caves. “Is that the falls?”  
   
“That’d be it,” Dean said. “Come on.”  
   
As they walked, Castiel began to notice a gradual change in the type of people wandering about the paths. It was only as they passed a building—in disrepair now, but clearly once much nicer, with wide arches and sturdy sandstone bricks—that Castiel realized where they were.  
   
“Dean,” he said, pointing to the entranceway. It was filled with a great variety of women, almost all scantily clad. “Is that a brothel?” At his query, Dean’s head swung around.  
   
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah.”  
   
Castiel pressed his lips together. “Dean, I—”  
   
“I know, I know.” Dean held his hands up defensively. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking you to one. We have to walk through here to get to the falls.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel exhaled. “I see.”  
   
The lines in Dean’s forehead deepened. “Why are you so prickly about that kind of thing? Don’t they have brothels where you come from?”  
   
“I,” Castiel said. “Yes. They do.”  
   
“But you just…don’t go?”  
   
“No.”  
   
A beat. “Is it some kind of religious thing?”  
   
“Um,” said Castiel. “Yes. It’s religious.”  
   
Dean shook his head. “Well at least you’re not a hypocrite like Zachariah. I swear, every time I saw him down here he was paying for one girl or another. Now, I don’t need to pay women to sleep with me—” Dean’s teeth flashed in a grin, as Castiel murmured,  
   
“No, I never thought you would.”  
   
“—but some prefer it and I have no issue with that. What I have issue with is castigating people for doing it, and then going to do it yourself.”  
   
Castiel grimaced. “You’ve described Zachariah very well. He behaves that way in most of his endeavors.”  
   
“I’m glad he was called back.” Dean clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “You’re a much better ambassador than he was.”  
   
The back of Castiel’s neck flushed. “I—thank you,” he said. “Technically I’m not a ambassador.”  
   
“Eh.” Dean shrugged. “Close enough.” He paused again. “Can you hear the falls better now?”  
   
This time, Castiel didn’t even have to cup his ear. The dull roar was clearly audible, echoing throughout the caves. “Yes.”  
   
“Good.” Dean pointed down a narrower passageway. “Through here.” Castiel followed.  
   
The passageway in question was narrow, so no buildings had been built inside of it. Rather, the walls looked fairly undisturbed, and Castiel could see the cave formations in much greater detail than before. The limestone along the walls looked like beaded water droplets that had somehow frozen in stone, some with odd little whorls and patterns. With the exception of the occasional lamp screwed into the wall, there was nothing but the worn floor beneath their feet to suggest that people had been walking this cave for nearly two hundred years.  
   
As the sound of rushing water grew louder, the passageway began to widen, until suddenly he could see a gleam of light up ahead, different than the flickering of the lanterns.  
   
“Is that light from the outside?” Castiel said in wonder.  
   
“Sure is,” Dean said, as they stepped out of the passageway and into a massive cavern. He threw his arms out dramatically. “Welcome,” he said, “to Singing Falls.” For his part, Castiel could do nothing but stare.  
   
‘Cavern’ was a bit of a misnomer. The area was cavernous enough, true, but the wide sweeping walls failed to close over the top, so that through the mist and droplets of water, Castiel could see individual stars in the night sky. The falls themselves crashed straight from the cliffs above—the same cliffs that connected to the back of the castle, Castiel could see—down into the hole in the ceiling and through the floor, falling away into the darkness. Around the opening, moss and ferns grew so that they hung over the top, creating a leafy canopy of green. Above the thunder of the water, Castiel could hear a higher pitched whistling noise. He turned to Dean.  
   
“Is that why it’s called Singing Falls?” he inquired.  
   
Dean smiled, pleased. “Got it in one,” he said. “The sound changes with the wind. Sometimes there are concerts in here too, for the big festivals, and they make it sound really odd.”  
   
Castiel nodded. “It’s beautiful,” he said.  
   
“This is where Colt first found the caves.” Dean leaned against a rock. He pointed upwards, and Castiel’s gaze followed to find several pinpricks of light moving about on the surface. “Guards,” Dean said, in answer to Castiel’s questioning look. “A leftover from the Demon Wars. The passage we walked through has a few surprises too, in case the guards were overwhelmed. And the whole thing can seal off at the entrance.”  
  
His eyes now adjusted to the light, Castiel could see that they were not alone in the cavern. He tilted his head.  
   
“A lot of people come here,” Dean said, in response to Castiel’s unasked question. “Families, couples. Everybody.”  
   
“I can understand why.” Castiel sat down next to Dean, on one of the rocks. “It’s very peaceful here.”  
   
They watched the water for a few minutes. A man and woman, fingers twined together, wandered past them on the path. Castiel watched as they approached a small arch and stopped underneath it. The pair turned to each other, and then the woman took the man’s face in her hands and pulled him down into a kiss. Castiel could not help the little sigh that escaped him at the sight.  
   
“A romantic, huh?” Dean slid down the wall to sit next to him, legs splayed. Castiel turned to him.  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
Dean nodded towards the archway. “That’s kissing arch. You’re supposed to kiss your true love under there.”  
   
“What an original name,” Castiel commented. Dean shoved at him.  
   
“Shut up. Legend goes, if you kiss your true love under the arch, you’ll be together forever.”  
   
“Huh.” Castiel watched as different couple approached the arch, stopped underneath it, and shared a kiss. “Interesting.”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “I take it back. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”  
   
“Probably not,” Castiel agreed. He stretched, pushing himself up to his feet.  
   
“Ready to go?” Dean asked him from the floor.  
   
Castiel rotated his shoulder. “It has been a very long day.”  
   
“It’s not even midnight.”  
   
Castiel gave him a thoroughly unamused look.  
   
“Fine, fine.” Dean stood as well. “Couldn’t have mentioned that before I sat down?”  
   
Castiel nodded absently, still watching the kissing arch. He could see another couple headed down the shadowy path there now.  
   
“I don’t know why I would have expected any sympathy,” Dean grumbled, smacking dust off the seat of his trousers. When Castiel still didn’t respond, Dean looked up. “Hello? Earth to Cas? You awake?”  
   
“Yes, I—” Castiel tore his gaze away from the couple. There was something decidedly _off_ about them, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. “Did you say something?”  
   
Dean snorted. “No, never mind.” He glanced over to where Castiel had been looking, and smiled, bumping Castiel’s shoulder. “I changed my mind,” he said, “since you can’t stop watching them, I think you _are_ secretly a romantic.”  
   
Castiel huffed, turning to look again. “That’s not—” he froze. The couple beneath the arch was fully visible in the lamplight. Castiel stared.  
   
Not noticing, Dean continued on. “I mean, I believe it's a load of crock shit, let’s be honest here, but a lot of people are into it and if you want to find someone to kiss under the stupid arch then seriously, Cas. I will find you a lovely girl…” he trailed off, noticing Castiel’s preoccupation with the kissers. He stopped for a second, blinked, then said, “…or a guy, I mean, we have plenty of those around, obviously.” He gripped Castiel’s shoulder, his voice dropping a little in concern as Castiel continued to be unresponsive. “Cas? Are you all right?” He eyed the two men, still kissing under the arch. “Uh, do you know them?”  
   
Castiel shook himself. “I—” he tried, and stopped. His voice caught in his throat. “I…”  
   
Dean stepped around so that he was blocking Castiel’s view. “Cas?” he said, quietly.  
   
Castiel’s eyes snapped back to his. “Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. He stumbled back, out of Dean’s grip. Dean’s eyes widened in concern, but Castiel caught his balance, now determinedly looking away from both Dean and the kissing arch. “Sorry,” he repeated.  
   
“Man, don’t be sorry, just tell me what’s going on with you,” Dean said, perplexed. He followed as Castiel hurriedly made his way towards the passage leading back to the main caves. “You were completely fine five seconds ago.”  
   
“It’s not—I’m fine.” Castiel forced himself to slow so that Dean could catch up. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’m just, I’m just tired.”  
   
Dean raised a clearly disbelieving eyebrow. “If you say so.”  
   
“I do, I do, um, say so.” Castiel tripped over a rock, Dean grabbed at his arm.  
   
“You weren’t sleeping with one of those men, were you?”  
   
“What?” Castiel said, voice going up an octave. He pulled away from Dean. “No, of course not! I wouldn’t…” he swallowed. “I wouldn’t. I wasn’t.”  
   
“So then, why are you so upset?”  
   
“I’m not!” Castiel snapped. Dean took half a step back in surprise. Castiel closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m very tired. I didn’t mean to shout.”  
   
Dean gave him a wary look. “You sure?”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel shut his eyes. “Perhaps it would be best if we return for the night.”  
   
“Whatever you say.” Dean was still studying him closely. Castiel turned away.  
   
“Please,” he said.  
   
“All right,” Dean said, after another moment. He began to walk back down the passageway, Castiel at his heels. Unlike their last journey however, this time, they walked in silence.  
 


	6. Chapter 6

“Sam!” said Dean, bursting into his brother’s room at half past midnight. His shirt was halfway undone, and he was wearing only one boot. He gesticulated wildly with both hands. “Sam, where are your books on Eden?”  
   
“What the hell?” Sam mumbled, struggling to sit up. He squinted at Dean, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Dean?”  
   
“The books, Sam. Where are your books?”  
   
“Why?” Sam croaked.  
   
Dean let out an impatient sigh. “I’ll tell you later, all right? Just—I want to look some stuff up.”  
   
Sam gave this the consideration it deserved, and then threw his pillow at him. Dean caught it in one hand. “Go to the library,” Sam grumbled, burying his head under his blankets. “I’m trying to sleep.”  
   
“Sam,” Dean whined. He stood next to Sam’s bedside, and plopped the pillow down on top of where he thought his brother’s head might be. “Come on.”  
   
Slowly, a hand emerged from underneath the covers, the fingers folded into a decidedly rude gesture. Then, Sam crooked his index finger towards a pile of books just off the side of the desk in the corner. As Dean turned his attention to the pile in question, the hand blindly groped on top of the blankets for a second, before locating the pillow Dean had placed there and dragging it below.  
   
Dean meanwhile, walked over to the desk, bent down, and scooped up a couple of volumes. “I’ll bring these back,” he announced, holding them to his chest.  
   
Sam’s only response was a snore.  
   
Dean tucked the books under his arm, shaking his head as he eased out of his brother’s bedroom and into the sitting room. The lamp was still lit from earlier, so he sat on a chair beneath it, setting the pile of books down on the floor next to him. After he had removed his remaining boot and tossed it to land haphazardly beside its mate, he picked up one of the books. He brushed his hand over the cover, embossed with an image of a bird in flight, and peered at the title.  
   
 _Naval Power and the Formation of the Kingdom of Middlewest_  
   
“Hmm.” Dean gnawed on his lower lip and set that one aside. He picked up another book, this one with a red cover and no title. He flipped it open to the first page, and was greeted with a sketch of a bridge over a small river filled with Lilly pads.  
   
 _The Architecture of Eden: City-state to Capital_  
   
“Probably not,” Dean decided. He closed that book and put it on top of the first one, before withdrawing a third volume. This one also had a red cover and no title, though with the addition of a drawing of a sailing ship on the front. Dean noticed that it looked fairly similar to the ship Castiel had arrived in, and he wondered absently if there was some sort of standard model, or if it was just a coincidence. He opened to the first page.  
   
 _Eden and The Isles: Two Hundred Years of War at Sea_  
   
Dean tilted his head in interest. Hadn’t Castiel mentioned something about the Isles once? It sounded familiar. Well, Dean figured, Castiel had probably fought at the Isles at the very least—from what Dean had heard, nearly a third of Michael’s Navy had a permanent post there.  
   
Despite the fact that _Eden and The Isles: Two Hundred Years of War at Sea_ , probably couldn’t tell him much about Castiel’s oddness that evening, Dean turned to the next page anyway. 

  
#  
 

The day following their successful return from the hunt, Castiel spent a full five minutes lying in bed after the morning bells had rung, trying to think up some excuse to avoid his customary horsemanship lessons. Finally, when nothing came to mind, and Oren had started puttering about, drawing up shades and the like, Castiel, defeated, swung his legs over the side of the bed and prepared to face his doom.  
   
Fittingly, the sky overhead was grey and overcast, threatening more than the customary bit of morning drizzle. Castiel found himself moving uncharacteristically slowly as he pulled on his trousers and riding boots. He barely managed a bite or two of breakfast and even Oren, who by now was accustomed to Castiel’s peculiarities, looked at him somewhat askance, though he asked no questions.  
   
Castiel was so focused on imaginary responses to Dean’s—no doubt probing—questions, that when Dean did meet him outside the stables after breakfast, he was taken aback when their eyes met and Dean just…said nothing.  
   
Suspicious, but unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, Castiel decided to carry on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened the night previous. And perhaps, he thought, to Dean, his momentary strangeness had been only that: momentary. Perhaps the hugeness of the issue was just in Castiel’s own head? For he had known—had been warned, even—that the ways of the people here were strange. Different. And Dean _had_ seen what Castiel had, under the kissing arch. Hadn’t he? And thought nothing of it?  
   
Or maybe he hadn’t?  
   
Castiel began to wonder, somewhat desperately, if his own unnatural desires had in fact conjured up the whole thing. Had he been imagining the two men? Had one of them been a woman the whole time, with Castiel simply being too addled to realize it?  
   
He startled as Dean laid a hand on his horse’s neck, arm precariously close to Castiel’s knee.  
   
“Hey, Cas? Earth to Cas?”  
   
Castiel snapped back to attention. “Yes?”  
   
Dean was looking at him, something akin to concern in his eyes. “You’re kind of far away today. Did you even hear what I said?”  
   
“I…” Castiel swallowed, coloring. “My apologies. Would you repeat it?”  
   
Dean’s forehead wrinkled. “You all right?”  
   
“Yes, I’m fine,” Castiel heard himself say. He gathered the reins of his gelding, straightening his back. “Just a little fatigued from, from everything. What were your instructions?”  
   
Dean stepped away from his horse, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his trousers. “You’re to jump those,” he said, indicating a series of half-fallen logs at the far end of the field. They were set up so as to imitate the sort of obstacle one might find necessary to maneuver around in the deeper reaches of the forest. Castiel bit his lip at the sight, then nodded. He set off at a trot towards the other end of the field, his pace gradually changing into a canter as he approached the logs. Dean watched him go, shoulders slumping as soon as his back was turned.  
   
He watched as Castiel completed the jumps, more or less successfully, and came trotting back up to Dean, who pushed himself off the fence to meet him.  
   
“You’re getting pretty good at that,” he said. “Just need to relax a little. I can see the tension in you from here.”  
   
For the first time that morning, Castiel’s mouth curved upward. “I’ve had a good teacher,” he said, inclining his head. “And I will continue to work on my…on the tension.”  
   
Dean tutted. “Don’t be so modest. And if anything, thank the damn horse for not dumping you.” He patted the side of the horse’s neck.  
   
“We do seem to be getting along better these days.” Castiel sat back in the saddle. Feeling something hit his head, he held out his hand, palm up. He wrinkled his nose as first one raindrop fell, then another. “It’s beginning to rain,” he said. “How much longer will we be out here?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “No hurry. Might as well go in now.”  
   
“But it’s not even been an hour.”  
   
“Do you really want to ride in the rain?” Dean gave him an amused look.  
   
“When I’m hunting, I will be forced to endure all varieties of weather.” It was starting to rain harder now. Castiel wiped water out of his eyes with his forearm.  
   
“True.” Dean began to lead them out of the field, back towards the stables. “It’s a good thing you’re not on a hunt then, isn’t it?”  
   
Castiel’s mouth twisted in response, but he held his tongue, which to Dean seemed to indicate that he had gotten the point across.  
   
By the time they had made their way into the stables, the skies had truly opened up, and Castiel was soaked to the bone. Dean wasn’t much better, he saw, though at least he’d had the forethought to bring along a cloak. Castiel was a fair hand at caring for his borrowed gelding now, and he removed the saddle and brushed him down efficiently, while Dean watched to make sure of any mistakes.  
   
“Cas, you’re gonna spoil him,” Dean commented, as Castiel produced a couple of ill-gotten carrots out of his bag.  
   
“He likes them.” Castiel offered one in the flat of his palm. The gelding accepted it with delicate lips, tickling Castiel’s hand.  
   
“Yeah, I know.” Dean snorted. “He’s going to get fat. At least it’s not apples this time.”  
   
“We’re working on our relationship,” Castiel returned loftily. He stroked his horse’s nose. “Weren’t you saying that the bond between a hunter and his horse is the most important tool in our arsenal?”  
   
Dean cast his eyes heavenward. “You can’t take words out of my mouth like that,” he complained.  
   
“Yes, I can.” Castiel fed the horse another carrot, then brushed off his hands. “Sorry,” he told him, holding up his empty fingers, “that was the last one.”  
   
“Thank the lord,” Dean muttered, as he led Castiel out of the stall. “I’m freezing. I want to take a nice hot bath, and then sleep for another hour.” They halted just inside the entrance, watching the water come streaming down off the roof.  
   
“At least you brought a cloak. I don’t have anything.”  
   
“And whose fault is that?”  
   
Castiel shot him an annoyed look.  
   
“Should we make a break for it?” Dean stuck his arm outside, and then withdrew it, shaking off the water.  
   
“I don’t mind waiting a little bit,” Castiel told him. He examined his shirt. “I’ve just about dried off, anyway.” He sat down cross-legged in a pile of hay, leaning back against the wooden slats of the stable wall. Dean shrugged off his sodden cloak, leaving it in a pile on the ground, and then joined him.  
   
“Hey, Cas?” Dean asked. He picked up a piece of hay, rolling it between his fingers. “Can I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”  
   
With all of the excitement from the rain, Castiel had forgotten to be wary. Now, he stiffened. His voice was guarded as he said, “Yes?”  
   
Dean bit his lip, still fiddling with the piece of hay. “The people of the Isles. Are they—are they really cannibals?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes widened. That…had not been the question he was expecting. At all. “Why do you ask?”  
   
“I was reading about the history of the war there.” Dean broke the piece of hay in half and tossed it away, before his fingers found a new piece to toy with. “You were there, weren’t you?”  
   
Castiel could see no reason to lie. “Yes.”  
   
Dean seemed to struggle for a moment. “And they’re not…they don’t, um.” He snapped the straw in two. “The book was very graphic,” he muttered.  
   
Castiel wet his lips, thinking. “The people of the Isles come from as different worlds as you and I,” he said. He took a deep breath. “But no, I never saw anything in my time there to indicate that they practice cannibalism. Their behavior in war was no more bloody than our own.” His gaze flickered away, towards the ground.  
   
“Oh,” Dean said. He seemed a little relieved. He tilted his head towards Castiel, “And we’re not so different.” He grabbed another handful of straw, leaning back against the wall. He straightened his legs, extending them out in front of himself, crossing his feet at the ankles.  
   
“As you say.” Castiel leaned his head back, eyes closed. He listened to the pounding of the rain of the roof for a moment, the soft stream of the water as it flowed down onto the grass.  
   
“Would you tell me about it?”  
   
“About what?”  
   
“I don’t know. What it was like there?”  
   
“You mean the Isles?”  
   
“Yeah. Or, you know. Something. Something about you. About your world.”  
   
“My world?” Castiel opened his eyes to cock his head at Dean curiously. “What do you mean?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “You’ve been living here, and you know all about us—”  
   
“I wouldn’t say _all_ ,” Castiel interjected.  
   
“—but I don’t know much of anything about you,” Dean continued. “I mean, I don’t even know if you have any brothers or sisters!”  
   
Castiel smiled at that. “I’m an only child,” he said.  
   
Dean threw some straw at him. “All right, that’s one thing. Now go on.”  
   
“I don’t understand why you would want to know these things.”  
   
“Cas.” Dean was giving him a despairing look. “Just—tell me about your childhood or, whatever. Something. Lord, I told you all about mine!”  
   
“It will be boring.”  
   
“I’m sitting in the stables waiting for the rain to stop. That’s already kind of boring, wouldn’t you say?”  
   
Castiel was hard-pressed to argue against that. “Very well,” he said, settling more comfortably in the hay. “What do you want to know?”  
   
“I dunno.” Dean brushed a handful of hay against his cheek as he thought. “Tell me about Eden,” he decided. “My little brother’s living there now. What’s it like?”  
   
Castiel bowed his head. “Eden is a very beautiful city,” he said.  
   
“So I’ve heard.”  
   
“Well then, clearly you don’t need me to tell you about it.”  
   
“Sorry, my bad.” Dean offered up a shamefaced grin. “I’ll be quiet.”  
   
Castiel lifted an eyebrow at that, but continued anyway. “The mountains surrounding Eden contain great marble quarries, so much of the older city is built from marble. There are nine spheres—”  
   
“Spheres?”  
   
“Like levels. Or districts, rather, since some are physically no higher than others. The word ‘sphere’ is a direct translation from the Enochian. There is an extensive network of canals that connect the different spheres, and in the center of the city is the Garden.”  
   
“Wait.” Dean held up a hand. “A lot of this I’ve heard. No, really,” he said to Castiel’s doubtful face. “Sam had like, three separate architecture books on Eden _just_ in his room. But what’s Enochian? I thought everyone spoke Common there, same as here.”  
   
Castiel shook his head. “Common,” he said, “is _common_.”  
   
“Well, yeah. That’s kind of the point.”  
   
“Since the Demon Wars, Common has become the language of choice for communication, but the noble families of Eden still retain the old ways, along with their old language: Enochian.” He gave Dean a sympathetic look. “It’s spoken almost exclusively in Michael’s court. Your brother will have had to learn it by now.” He drew his knees up to his chest. “Enochian is somewhat of a difficult language to learn, though a child of his age would have less trouble, I should think. It’s part of the reason why most of the commanding officers in the military are of some degree of noble birth; they already have the advantage of knowing the language.”  
   
“Huh.” Dean traced an aimless pattern on the floor. “Do you speak any?”  
   
“Of course.”  
   
“Well, then.” Dean folded his hands together and eyed Castiel expectantly. “Say something.”  
   
Castiel blinked. “What should I say?”  
   
“I don’t know. Say your name.”  
   
“Castiel.”  
   
“No, in Enochian.”  
   
“Castiel is an Enochian name.”  
   
Dean huffed out a breath. “Fine. Say ‘hello’.”  
   
“There isn’t a word for hello.”  
   
“What? How is that even possible? Do you just not say hi to people?”  
   
Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “There are greetings such as ‘good morning’ or ‘good day’. No plain ‘hello’.”  
   
Dean mulled that over. “Fine,” he said. “Say ‘good day’.”  
   
“Basgim tov.”  
   
“Huh.” Dean was giving him a speculative look. “You sound completely different when you speak Enochian.” He scooted closer. Castiel pretended not to notice. “Say something else.”  
   
“Bra de ga ra ma.”  
   
“What’s that mean?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes glimmered. “You breed with the mouth of a goat.”  
   
Dean blinked at him for a second, and then his face split into a wide grin and he laughed. The sound of it sent pleasant shivers zinging down Castiel’s spine.  
   
“Samvelg?”  
   
“What’s that?”  
   
“It means ‘Righteous.’”  
   
“Boring,” Dean declared. “Another.” He pursed his lips, now close enough that Castiel could feel the heat radiating off of his body. He could nearly count Dean’s freckles. Dean’s shoulder bumped up against his. Castiel held back a whimper and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.  
   
“Um,” he said, “Diu ooanoan oabata queena.”  
   
“What’s that mean?”  
   
Castiel swallowed, staring at the ground as he admitted, “Your eyes are very green.”  
   
At his words, Dean’s mouth opened a little, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Are they?”  
   
Castiel wet his lips, wishing for the floor to swallow him up. “Um. Yes.”  
   
“You were looking at my eyes.”  
   
“I,” said Castiel softly. “Yes, I…I suppose I was.”  
   
“Oh,” Dean said. Their faces were very close now, so that when Castiel finally looked up, they were nearly nose-to-nose. Unable to stop himself, Castiel’s gaze flickered down to Dean’s mouth, then back up to see Dean staring at him.  
   
“I,” Castiel said, turning red. He began to turn away again. “Forgive me. I—”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said. His voice was hoarse. “Cas, would you, would look at me?” He caught Castiel’s chin and turned him back to face him. “It’s all right,” he said. “I don’t mind, honest.” He smiled a little. “You can look at my eyes if you want.”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel’s hands trembled in his lap. “Dean, I—”  
   
“Cas,” Dean whispered. “Would you shut up for a second?” The hand on Castiel’s chin let go only to trace up along Castiel’s cheek. Castiel’s heart began to faster, a staccato tattoo that he thought might even be audible to Dean. “You’re shaking,” Dean murmured. “Why?”  
   
“I,” Castiel tried again, but his voice was weak. His will was weak. He raised his face to Dean’s. “Dean…”  
   
Dean pressed their mouths together. Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut. Dean’s lips were chapped from a life outdoors, but he moved them against Castiel’s gently, as though he were something precious. His hand curled around the base of Castiel’s head, guiding him into the kiss. As if of their own volition, Castiel’s hands came to rest on Dean’s hips. As he felt the press of Castiel’s fingers against his skin, Dean deepened the kiss, pulling Castiel towards him. Castiel stiffened, then relaxed into it as he felt Dean’s free hand carding through his hair. He breathed in Dean’s leather and horse scent, swept up in the familiar comfort of it.  
   
“Cas,” Dean muttered, breaking away and then diving back in again. “Cas. You are.” He tugged Castiel closer. “ _Castiel_.”  
   
At the sound of his full name, it was as if a bucket of icy cold water had suddenly been overturned.  
   
“No!” Castiel gasped, his eyes shooting open. He broke away and stood up so quickly that Dean nearly toppled over. He gazed up at Castiel, surprise written all over his face.  
   
“Cas, what—?”  
   
“I can’t,” Castiel said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t. Dean, I—” his voice caught in his throat as their eyes met, his panicked to Dean’s bewildered. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He looked to the water still pouring outside, and then with one last glance at Dean, turned and fled into the rain, leaving Dean splayed out on the ground, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
   
“What,” Dean said faintly. He scrubbed his hand across his mouth. He looked at it, and then out the door in the direction Castiel had gone. “What the hell?” 

  
#  
 

While he was used to Dean banging into his quarters at all hours, Sam was less accustomed to Dean doing so while in the grips of what seemed to be some sort of full scale panic.  
   
“And then I _kissed_ him, Sam. And he seemed like he was really into it but then all of a sudden he ran out the damn door.” Dean paced back and forth, hands waving wildly as he ranted. “Bobby is going to kill me if he finds out.”  
   
“Wait, what?” Sam brought his hand up to his forehead, rubbing his temples to stave off a headache. “Dean, stop. Who are you even talking about?”  
   
Dean heaved an impatient sigh. “Cas. I told you. It’s Cas. Damn it, are you even listening?”  
   
“I am, I am,” Sam assured him, nodding. He sat up straighter, placing his hands neatly in his lap. “Can you slow down, though? I don’t even know what’s going on.”  
   
Dean’s jaw clenched. “It’s Cas,” he said again, this time despairingly. He slumped down into an armchair, covering his face with his hands as he recited to Sam in dull tones what had transpired in the stables.  
   
When he finished, Sam rose to his feet and stood next to him. He placed a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. “And he just ran out?” he repeated. “Just like that?”  
   
“Just like.” Dean shook his head. “I don’t get it!” he burst out. “He said my eyes were green. He was _looking into my eyes_. Sam, he wanted to kiss me. And he was—well, at least I thought he was enjoying it, but then he just had a fit and fucking disappeared!”  
   
“And you can’t find him anywhere?”  
   
“No.” Dean’s fist smacked down onto the armrest. “I even went to his quarters, but Oren just gave me the dead eyes and said he wasn’t there.” He blew air out of the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t want to cause a diplomatic incident, so I left.”  
   
“And he’s,” Sam hesitated, “he’s never acted like this before?”  
   
Dean gave him a look. “I’ve never kissed him before.”  
   
“No, I.” Sam cleared his throat. “I know that. But maybe you’re not what set him off. Maybe it was something else?” It sounded ridiculous, even as he said it, but Sam knew that someone had to grasp at straws, or else Dean would be in a funk for at least a week.  
   
“No,” Dean said glumly. He scrubbed at his forehead. “It was definitely the kissing. He’s never…” he trailed off, sitting up slowly as he did so. “Wait.”  
   
“Wait?”  
   
“No, he.” Dean got to his feet and began to pace again. “He _did_ act like this before. Last night, actually. He was watching people at the arch and then, it was as if his feathers got all ruffled or something. That’s why I wanted your books, by the way. To see if there was some, I don’t know, law against kissing in public or something.”  
   
“Wait, you took him to the _kissing arch_?”  
   
“No.” Dean frowned. “I took him to see the falls.”  
   
“There’s only one reason people go to the falls at night, Dean.”  
   
“Yeah, well, Cas doesn’t know that.” Dean waved him off. “He wanted to see them.”  
   
“You mean _you_ wanted to take him there.” Sam glanced at him sharply. “How long has this been going on?”  
   
“What?” Dean backed away, hands up. “It hasn’t. It’s nothing. It’s—today was the first time, I swear.”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
Dean sighed. “I like him,” he said. “He’s odd, but he—” he shook his head. “But that’s not the point, Sam. I wouldn’t have kissed him if he didn’t kiss me back, but he _did_ and there has to be something, some reason why he’s been acting so oddly.”  
   
“I don’t know, Dean.” Sam’s voice was sympathetic. He shrugged. “The only thing I can think of would be to ask him.”  
   
“But I can’t find him.” Dean slumped back down into the chair. “He could be anywhere.”  
   
“He can’t hide from you forever,” Sam said sensibly. He gestured towards the door. “The castle’s not that big. You’ll run into him eventually.”  
   
Dean grunted. “You don’t know Cas,” he said.  
   
Sam was giving him a knowing look. “But apparently, you do,” he said. “That should be enough, shouldn’t it?”  
   
Dean bit his lip, getting to his feet. “I’m going to look some more,” he said, heading to the door. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks,” he added quietly.  
   
Sam nodded.

  
#  
 

Despite Dean’s newfound determination, Castiel, it seemed, was very gifted at hiding. Failing being able to locate him, Dean held on to the hope that he might at least see Castiel the next morning for their lesson. Those hopes were unequivocally dashed when he spotted Oren waiting for him down by the stables.  
   
“Lord Dean,” Oren said, bowing as he approached. Dean bit back an irritated huff. His father’s way of life and Bobby’s relaxed approach to his own authority had meant that Dean had been raised surrounded by people who often forgot that he even _had_ a title, much less addressed him by it. As such, usage of it always made him feel strange, like it wasn’t really _him_ they were talking to.  
   
“Yes?”  
   
Oren bowed again. The corner of Dean’s right eye twitched. “My master has requested that I inform you that he is ill this morning and unable to ride. He asks for your understanding.”  
   
“Does he now,” Dean said flatly.  
   
Oren nodded solemnly. “He does.”  
   
Dean’s jaw worked. “Well, you can tell _Castiel_ , that he…he…” His fingers flexed at his sides, but he seemed unable to finish the thought, his sudden burst of anger making it difficult to focus.  
   
“Yes?”  
   
Dean shut his eyes for a moment. “Tell him I wish him a speedy recovery,” he said dully, turning away as Oren bowed for a third time and then took his leave back across the courtyard. Dean watched him go, that pit in his stomach exponentially worse now that the anger had evaporated just as quickly as it had appeared. He drooped heavily against the wall of the stables, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles.  
   
Castiel was behaving like a total ass, but—Dean gnawed on his lower lip. What if something was truly _wrong_? What if his boldness had actually caused some irreparable rift between them? What if—  
   
Dean pushed away from the wall. He straightened his shirt and cloak, and then strode away from the stables, back towards the keep.  
   
He didn’t feel much like riding today.  
   
After passing through the entirety of the castle in the vague hope that he might run into Castiel in some random corridor (he didn’t, but Ellen did start to give him suspicious glances each time they passed by each other), he headed back down to Rufus’ office; maybe the hunters had something he could do.  
   
He was quickly disabused of that notion when Rufus kicked him out exactly six and a half minutes later, after a spirited lecture on the mandatory two-day break after a hunt.  
   
He briefly toyed with the idea of going back to talk to Sam, but Sam had already put up with him enough in a twenty four hour period. A third time wouldn’t make him feel better, he suspected, it would just make him feel pathetic.  
   
This was how Dean eventually found himself trudging into the library, and asking if there was a section on Eden. If Castiel wasn’t going to speak to him, then Dean figured he was just going to have to find his own answers.  
   
It figured that the librarian was a snitch, Dean thought, several hours and eight volumes later, when Sam wandered in.  
   
“I’m not going,” Dean told him, even as he closed the book with a dusty thump. He rubbed at his eyes. They felt dry and gritty. “There’s a gathering every week. No one will care if I miss this one.”  
   
Sam perched on the table. “I’ll care.”  
   
Dean fixed him with a baleful look. “That why you’re not there already?”  
   
“Come on, Dean.” Sam was giving him the eyes. “You’ve been in here almost all day. Time to do something else. Take your mind off of Castiel, if that’s—”  
   
“Don’t,” Dean warned.  
   
Sam crossed his arms. “You know if you don’t come with me, Jo will be the next one in here.”  
   
Dean allowed his head to smack down on the table.  
   
“Come on.” Sam shook his shoulder. “Maybe Castiel will be there.”  
   
“Cas hates crowds,” Dean mumbled into the forgiving wood of the table. “Told me they make him nervous.”  
   
“Twenty minutes,” Sam bargained. “Show your face, get in a good dance with Jo, and then you can leave. I won’t bother you about it again.”  
   
Dean peeked out from below his elbow, then sat up with a sigh. “Twenty minutes,” he agreed grudgingly.   
   
“Excellent.” Sam jumped off the edge of the table, helping to tug a reluctant Dean to his feet. “Come on. You at least have to put on clean clothes.”  
   
Thirty minutes later, with water freshly splashed on his face, hair combed, and looking a great deal more presentable than he had been, Dean followed his brother through to the great hall. It was already plenty crowded, and the starched collar of Dean’s clean shirt itched a little. He made his way around the crowd, doling out smiles, though they didn't reach his eyes, and trying to search out Jo.  
   
His gaze swept over the food and drink table first, but then when he failed to spot her there, he scanned the rest of the room as best as he could. Much to his surprise, he finally caught a glimpse of a familiar head of blond hair on the dance floor. He bit back a snort, feeling a little miffed, though he knew it was ridiculous; Jo could dance with whomever she pleased, it didn’t mean Dean was out of the running as her _preferred_ partner.  
   
He raised his hand in a little wave, and as she spotted him, her eyes lit up. She mouthed ‘ _later?’_ at him, and Dean had a chance to get in a quick nod and a smile before her dance partner spun her around. As he did so, the smile abruptly slid off Dean’s face. His jaw dropped.  
   
It was Castiel.  
   
Shock was quickly subsumed by disbelief, and then Dean saw red. “That rat bastard,” he seethed. Sam, who was standing at his elbow in some misplaced form of solidarity, quickly glanced up, then did a double take at the expression on Dean’s face.  
   
“What?” He followed as Dean pointed, and then his eyes widened. “Oh.” He put a steadying hand on Dean’s arm. “Dean,” he said, even as Dean began to push forward towards the dance floor. “Dean, what are you going to do—”  
   
“I’m going to kick his ass,” Dean snarled.  
   
Somewhat serendipitously, the musicians’ song came to a close at that very moment, and the dancing couples began to disengage. This gave Dean the opportunity to shove past them easily as he headed for Castiel.  
   
“Dean, come on, calm down, at least wait for a second,” Sam was saying as Dean planted himself directly behind Castiel and said loudly,  
   
“Heya, Cas. Feeling better I see?”  
   
Castiel slowly turned around, his face paling immediately as he spotted Dean. “Yes. Yes, I am much better now. Thank you for your concern, Dean.” He made to move away, eyes darting away from Dean’s face towards the doors on the far side of the room, but Dean blocked him.  
   
“Oh no,” he said, grabbing at Castiel’s arm. “Not this time.”  
   
Jo, still standing next to Castiel, shot Sam a very clear ‘what the hell is going on?’ look, which Sam returned with a helpless shrug.  
   
Castiel glanced down at the hand on his arm. “Let go,” he said lowly.  
   
“No way,” Dean said. “You owe me an explanation.”  
   
“I don’t owe you anything.” Castiel’s expression hardened. “Let _go_ , Dean.” He jerked his arm away, but Dean followed him, stepping right up into Castiel’s space, this time grabbing at the front of his shirt.  
   
“Really?” he growled, softly enough that only Castiel could hear him. “Because just yesterday you were kissing me and now it’s dancing with _Jo_?”  
   
Castiel narrowed his eyes. “It’s none of your business,” he bit out. “But I would appreciate it if you stopped causing a scene.”  
   
“Are you kidding me?” Dean’s voice rose an octave. “Cause a scene? I’ll show you a scene—”  
   
“Dean,” Sam snapped.  
   
“ _What_.”  
   
Sam gripped his shoulder. “Castiel’s right,” he said in a low voice. “You shouldn’t do this here.”  
   
Dean began to open his mouth, eyes flashing, but then hesitated, seeing the people around them already staring. He slowly unclenched his hand from Castiel’s shirt, taking a step backwards.  
   
Jo’s gaze switched between Dean and Castiel. She let out a yawn, fanning herself with her hand. “Castiel,” she said sweetly, “I’m feeling a little bit tired all of a sudden. Would you mind escorting me to my rooms?”  
   
Castiel looked flustered, even as he straightened his shirt, glaring at Dean. “Oh,” he said. “Yes, of course.” He offered Jo his arm, then paused. “Which way?”  
   
She pointed towards the far doors. “That way’s fine.”  
   
Castiel nodded stiffly to Sam, and then to Dean, his lips pressing together as he did so. Then, back straight, he led Jo out of the great hall, Dean’s eyes boring holes into his retreating form.  
   
“What is she doing?” he muttered. Sam shot him an incredulous look and smacked him on the shoulder.  
   
“You know where her rooms are,” he hissed. “You’re supposed to follow them.”  
   
Dean stilled. “Oh,” he said. He stepped away, stumbling a little, heading towards the exit after them.  
   
“Subtly,” Sam sighed, even as Dean disappeared out the door.  
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there wasn't an Enochian word for it, I stole it from another language. No shame.


	7. Chapter 7

As Castiel escorted Jo to her quarters, Dean skulked around the edges of the corridors, trying to stay out of sight. When the pair finally arrived at the proper door, Dean flattened himself against the wall, listening intently as Jo graciously bid Castiel a pleasant evening. Dean was, perhaps, more relieved than he had any right to be when Jo made no motions towards inviting her escort inside. As soon as he heard the click of the door shutting, Dean peeled himself from the wall to step directly into Castiel’s path.  
   
Castiel spotted him almost immediately. His shoulders slumped, though he didn’t look surprised. “Dean,” he said.  
   
“Cas,” Dean returned. He approached Castiel gradually this time, the walk from the great hall having given his temper enough time to cool to manageable levels. He stopped in front of Castiel, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. “We need to talk,” he said.  
   
Castiel looked down at the floor.  
   
“Cas. Please. This isn’t going to go away.”  
   
Castiel shut his eyes. “Not here,” he said finally.  
   
Dean nodded slowly. “Your rooms?”  
   
“No!” Castiel glanced up, face panicked. “No,” he repeated, as Dean’s expression shifted into one of concern. “Oren is in there. I…” he shook his head. “I do not want him to overhear.”  
   
Dean’s eyebrows drew together. _What the hell?_ he thought. But all he said was, “All right. Where?”  
   
Castiel hesitated, fiddling with the hem of his maroon jacket. “The stables,” he said.  
   
“No one will be there at this hour,” Dean said, realizing. “Not with the gathering going on.” He extended his hand down towards the end of the corridor. “Lead the way.”

  
#

  
Whether it was by accident or by design, and Dean was honestly not sure which, Castiel led them unerringly back to the same exact spot where they had waited out the rain. It had only been yesterday, Dean thought, yet for some reason it felt as though it had been ages ago.  
   
He dropped down onto the pile of hay, watching as Castiel slid to the floor along the side of the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest as soon as he was seated. Castiel stared down at the ground, gnawing on his lower lip.  
   
Dean gave him a few moments, but after the silence started to become oppressive, he shifted meaningfully. “Well?”  
   
Castiel keep his eyes toward his knees. “Sorry,” he said quietly.  
   
Dean heaved a sigh, placing the flat of his palms on his thighs. He moved the single lamp he had snatched on their way down, to a less precarious spot. “Well that’s great, Cas. But you’re going to have to be a little more specific here. Sorry for what, exactly?”  
   
Castiel lifted his head, blue eyes nearly black in the dimness. “I’m sorry for running,” he said. “I shouldn’t have. It was…” he searched for the correct word. “It was cowardly.” His head dropped again. He began to trace patterns on the dusty ground with his fingers. Dean frowned.  
   
“So why did you?” Dean asked. He hesitated, then barreled on, “Was it something I did?”  
   
Castiel continued drawing. “No.”  
   
Though that was somewhat of a relief, Castiel’s reticence was still incredibly frustrating. Dean ground his teeth. “Then why?”  
   
Finally, Castiel looked up. “Come here,” he said. The corners of Dean’s mouth turned down.  
   
“Why?”  
   
Castiel pressed his lips together. “I’m going to explain,” he said. “I swear it.”  
   
Dean gave him another long look, but finally scooted over to sit shoulder to shoulder with him. His eyes followed as Castiel pointed to whatever he had been drawing on the ground, and Dean could see now that he hadn’t just been tracing meaningless shapes into the dust.  
   
“That’s my name in Enochian,” Castiel said into the quiet, as Dean examined the rigid symbols. “This last part,” his fingers drifted over it, “that’s the ‘iel’. Castiel. Gabriel. Michael. It’s all the same in Enochian.”  
   
Dean’s finger followed along the letters. “What’s it mean?”  
   
Castiel allowed his head to thump against the wooden planks of the wall. “It means ‘of God’,” he said, eyes closed.  
   
“Of God,” Dean mouthed to himself. “All right. And?”  
   
“And…” Castiel exhaled. “I am not worthy of it.”  
   
Silence.  
   
“I don’t get it,” Dean said eventually. “How could—” he caught himself. “What?”  
   
Castiel opened his eyes and looked towards Dean. Dean felt his breath catch in his throat as their gazes locked. “To desire another man as a man ought to desire a woman…it’s a sin, Dean.”  
   
Outside, a wind picked up, rustling the leaves on the branches, the noise seeping into the silence of the stables. Dean stared. “What?”  
   
“It’s a sin,” Castiel repeated, sounding tired. He rubbed at his forehead. “Forbidden.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“You’re serious.”  
   
“Of course.” Castiel narrowed his eyes. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”  
   
“But—” Dean knew he sounded like an idiot, but he couldn’t stop himself. A _sin_? “But why?”  
   
Castiel shrugged.  
   
“But then,” Dean said, grasping, “if you don’t even know _why_ —”  
   
“It’s forbidden by God and the laws of my country,” Castiel interrupted. “It doesn’t matter _why_.” Dean’s heart skipped a beat as Castiel’s voice broke a little. “I’ve tried so hard,” he continued. “Ever since I was a boy, and I realized what I—what I was, I never let it rule me. I never,” he swallowed, “I never _succumbed_.”  
   
Dean wet his lips. “Until me.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“And that’s why you ran away.”  
   
A pause. Castiel bowed his head. “Yes.”  
   
Despite the situation, Dean could not help the hot sweep of triumph that washed through him. Castiel _had_ wanted him. Not only that, he had wanted him so badly that he had gone against the beliefs of his own people. Dean had been his _first_.  
   
Castiel was shaking his head. “It’s not fair,” he said. His fingers formed into a fist, nails digging into his palm. “I didn’t ask to be like this. I don’t _want_ to be a—a sinner, a _sodomite_. I am _sorry_ , Dean. I am so sorry.” He raised his hand as if to strike it against the ground, and Dean’s eyes widened in alarm.  
   
“Whoa, hey, hey.” He caught Castiel’s fist in his palm. “Calm down. I’m not angry with you. I’m not going to, I don’t know, turn you in or whatever. Who would I tell?” He chanced a smile. “I’m the one who kissed you, remember?”  
   
Castiel let out a breath. “Yes.”  
   
“And it wasn’t so bad.” Dean found himself rubbing Castiel’s fingers with his own. Castiel gave him a look like he knew where Dean was trying to go with that statement.  
   
“That’s not the point,” he said. “It’s _illegal_. It’s wrong.”  
   
“Not here.”  
   
“Dean…” Castiel pulled his hand away. Dean ignored the twitch of loss as he felt Castiel’s fingers slide through his. “It’s immoral. This is a law I cannot break.”  
   
“But you’ve already broken it,” Dean pointed out. Castiel stilled. Dean licked his lips, continuing recklessly, “I don’t know your ways, Cas. So I can’t tell you if they’re wrong or right. But here? There’s not a thing wrong with you. And if you want to,” he gulped, “if you want to take that chance, that—to see that. I…” he scrubbed at his face. “I like you,” he said, voice quiet. “I’d like to be your chance.”  
   
Castiel was silent for a moment. He swallowed. “I am.” He huffed out a breath. “I am fond of you, too, Dean. Obviously, I—” he looked away, muttering, “I wouldn’t have broken for anyone else.”  
   
Impulsively, Dean placed a hand on Castiel’s wrist. Castiel stiffened, but did not pull away. “You didn’t break,” Dean said, very seriously. “You’re not. You’re not broken. Not to me.” He squeezed Castiel’s arm. “Do you think less of me for kissing you? Am I a sinner? A sodomite?”  
   
Castiel’s head swung towards him. “Of course not,” he said, eyes serious. “I could never.”  
   
“Then there you go,” Dean declared. The corners of his mouth turned up. “You’re still the same Cas to me. The same man you’ve always been.”  
   
Castiel looked down at his knees again. “Thank you,” he said. “But Dean, I—”  
   
“No, I know. I get it.” Dean held up his hands. “Your laws say no.” He looked at Castiel gravely. “But if you think that not, you know, is going to make it go away, well.” He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s how it works. You said yourself you’ve always been like this.”  
   
“I don’t know what else to do,” Castiel whispered. “There was never—never anyone I could speak to. Not about this.”  
   
Dean let out a breath. “You already know what I would say. But I don’t think that’s what you mean.”  
   
Castiel tightened his arms around his knees, the knuckles of his hands whitening.  “I’m sorry.”  
   
“Cas.” Dean reached out and tilted his chin up with two fingers. “I’m not gonna kiss you if you don’t want me to.” He tilted his head. “I’m not scum.” Then he winked. “But if you want me to, I wouldn’t say no.”  
   
Castiel blinked at him, eyelashes fluttering against the paleness of his skin. “You’re making this very difficult,” he grumbled.  
   
“My bad,” Dean said. He made to move his fingers away, but Castiel caught his hand and held it to his cheek.  
   
“I need some time to think,” he said. He squeezed Dean’s hand, and then let go, placing his own hands in his lap. He took a deep breath. “But whether or not I, um, will we still be, um. As we were? Before all of this?”  
   
“What?” Dean said. Castiel gave him an exasperated look. Dean straightened. “Oh,” he said. “Yeah. Of course.” Realizing that Castiel was still staring at him, Dean rolled his eyes. “What, you think this is the first time I’ve been turned down? You’d be sorely disappointed. It won’t change anything, Cas. We’ll still be. You know.” He waved his hand. “Friends,” he finished, somewhat lamely.  
   
“Oh.” Castiel plucked at the edge of his jacket sleeve. “Good.”  
   
“One thing though.”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second, before opening his mouth with a sigh. “Jo.”  
   
“Jo?”  
   
This time, Dean was the one giving Castiel the significant look. “Yeah, Jo. Look, I know you two danced together tonight, and you kind of flirt with her a lot, so I just don’t want her feeling like she’s been led on, you know?”  
   
“I do what?” Castiel said, voice unusually high pitched. “I flirt?”  
   
The lines in Dean’s forehead deepened. He crossed his arms. “Uh, yeah.”  
   
“But I don’t!” Castiel said, panicky now.  
   
“Are you serious?”  
   
“I’m only trying to be polite,” Castiel said, and now his voice was more of a whine than anything else. “Michael said…”  
   
“Wait, _Michael_ said?”  
   
Castiel swiveled to glare at him. “Michael wanted me to attempt to gain her affections,” he admitted. “But,” he exhaled, flicking a piece of straw across the ground, “as I’ve told you, women aren’t exactly my, um.”  
   
“Yeah, I got that.”  
   
“Yes, well.” Castiel propped his chin up in his hands. “I didn’t want to bring any suspicion on myself, especially while Gabriel was here. But I swear.” And here he looked up, his face serious. “I swear I had no untoward intentions towards her.” His head drooped. “I will stop if you like.”  
   
“You don’t have to, I don’t know, not be her friend or anything,” Dean said. “I wouldn’t ask that.”  
   
“I will try not to flirt,” Castiel promised, solemn. He frowned. “Although I wasn’t aware that I was doing it in the first place.”  
   
Dean shook his head. “You are really something,” he said.  
   
Castiel grimaced at him. “You’d be the first to think so.” He began to stand, stretching out the kinks in his legs as he got to his feet. Dean followed suit.  
   
“Can I expect to see you here tomorrow? For the horses?” He hesitated, and then added. “Even while you’re, uh, thinking?” He cocked his head. “I promise not to do anything. We don’t even have to talk about it.”  
   
Castiel bit his lip, then nodded. “It’s important,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here today.”  
   
“Well,” Dean said, “you were kind of having a crisis of faith.” He grinned a little, but Castiel didn’t laugh.  
   
“Yes.” His gaze flicked away and then back towards Dean. “I was.”  
   
“Um,” said Dean. He rubbed the back of his neck. “So is there, uh, anything else?”  
   
“Anything else?”  
   
“Anything else I should know?”  
   
Castiel’s face scrunched up as he thought. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. He turned back to Dean. “Is there?”  
   
Dean shook his head, stooping down to grab the lantern off the ground. “Can’t think of anything.”  
   
“Well then.” Castiel’s mouth firmed. “That’s good?”  
   
“I guess.”  
   
They stood there awkwardly for a moment, the lantern swinging between them, casting odd shadows on the stable walls. Dean shifted his feet, hay crunching beneath his boots.  
   
“So.”  
   
“So,” Castiel echoed.  
   
“I guess we should go back.”  
   
“Indeed.”  
   
Dean took a step forward, the lantern creaking. “I should go to sleep.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“You need time to think.”  
   
Castiel licked dry lips. “Yes.”  
   
“Um,” Dean said, not looking at him, but rather at his feet. “For that. I’d, uh, I’d like to argue my case.”  
   
“What?”  
   
Dean was right in front of him now. He knelt to place his lantern back down on the ground with deliberate hands, gazing up through his eyelashes at Castiel’s face. “Please.”  
   
Castiel swallowed.  
   
Dean straightened slowly. “Please,” he said again.  
   
He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.  
   
“Cas.” Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. Unconsciously, Castiel leaned into it. “Just one,” Dean whispered.  
   
Castiel’s eyes fluttered shut. “Just one.”  
   
Castiel felt rather than saw Dean’s hands cupping either side of his face. Dean’s hot breath mingled with his and then he was pressing their lips together. The kiss was light, barely a touch, and Castiel sighed as Dean drew away after only a few seconds.  
   
“There,” Dean said, voice oddly scratchy. He stepped back a few paces and bent down to pick up the lantern. “I’ve argued.”  
   
Castiel’s throat worked. “Yes.” His heart was thumping wildly, but he tried to sound composed despite it. “Thank—thank you. I will consider your argument.”  
   
“Great,” Dean said. “But um, if I have anything else to say should I—?”  
   
Castiel’s breath hitched. “Do you?”  
   
“Um, I might.”  
   
“Well then.” Castiel wet his dry lips. “Then I suppose I should…let you have your say?”  
   
This time, the lantern hit the ground with a much more decisive thump, only barely avoiding being tipped over as Dean strode towards him to shove Castiel against the wall, covering the whole of Castiel’s body with his own. Castiel made an indistinct noise as Dean gripped his hands and slammed them above his head.  
   
“Can I?” Dean breathed in his ear.  
   
A pause and then—  
   
“Yes,” Castiel choked out.  
   
This time, Dean started not with his mouth, but at his neck, nuzzling Castiel’s jacket and shirt aside, sucking a mark onto his collarbone as Castiel tried his best not to squirm. He bit back a whine as Dean made his way upward and then finally, finally captured his lips once more, this time with force. Castiel felt himself go weak at the knees as Dean pressed against him, one of his legs working its way in between Castiel’s, even as he kissed deeper into him, snagging his lip as he pulled away, not letting go of his grip on Castiel’s hands.  
   
Castiel inhaled sharply as he felt an unmistakable burst of pleasure at his groin. It radiated out to his stomach, making his limbs feel soft and pliable. He felt himself harden. In the back of his mind there was a flare of warning, but it was faint. Weak.  
   
“Dean,” he panted, as Dean turned his attention back to his neck and then his shoulders, pushing his shirt aside.  
   
“Yeah, Cas?”  
   
“Dean, please. I—”  
   
“Yeah, I know.” Dean let go of one of his hands, transferring it to the other so that he still held Castiel captive against the wall. He smoothed his free hand down Castiel’s face, swiping beneath wide blue eyes, before curling it around the back of Castiel’s neck. “Come here.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel whimpered as he was guided into a second kiss. He let out another gasp as Dean’s free hand continued its journey downward, stroking in between his legs.  
   
Dean pulled back, pupils blown wide and black, hair mussed. “I was going to let you think,” he said. “I swear, I was.”  
   
Castiel’s breath came in short pants as he stared at Dean, mouth wet and glistening, still splayed against the wall. “I know,” he managed. “I—ah!”  
   
“Do you,” Dean said, between sharp kisses, his leg an ever-constant pressure against Castiel, his hand a menace, “do you want me to stop? Let you—”  
   
“Dean, _please_.”  
   
“—let you think some more?”  
   
Castiel pulled away abruptly, his cheeks flushed, his hair wild. Dean froze, but didn’t let go of his hands. Their eyes locked. Castiel opened his mouth. Shut it. Then opened it again.  
   
“I can think later,” he decided.  
   
“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Dean moaned as he let Castiel’s arms finally drop only to tug him into another kiss. His hands fell down to Castiel’s waist, pulling him towards him, hips beginning to rock. He could feel that Castiel was hard beneath his trousers, and Dean, well—he had been ready to burst since that initial little peck.  
   
Castiel’s hands fluttered uncertainly for a moment before they settled at Dean’s shoulders, grip tightening as Dean slowed the movement of his body to a deliberate grind, each time pressing harder and harder. Castiel let out a keen as Dean went for his neck again, and then his noises were smothered as Dean bit gently at his lower lip and covered his mouth with his own.  
   
They rutted against the wall, Dean adding more and more pressure with each twitch of his hips. Castiel was unable to do anything but make noises in the back of his throat, clawing helplessly at Dean’s shoulders, barely able to support himself as Dean gripped him through his trousers, then snaked his fingers towards the buttons. He let out a sob as Dean’s clever fingers popped open the series of buttons and reached into his underwear to enclose his calloused hand around smooth skin. Castiel’s eyes rolled back as Dean began to stroke, all the while rubbing himself against Castiel’s thigh.  
   
Higher and higher they spiraled, each burst of pleasure behind Castiel’s eyelids driving him closer to his climax. And Dean never let up, even as Castiel’s gasps became frantic, his fingers squeezing tight enough to bruise on Dean’s shoulders.  
   
“Dean,” he said, voice wavering. “Dean, I’m—I—”  
   
“I know,” Dean soothed. “Come on, Cas. Let go for me. Want to see you let go.” He flicked the end of Castiel’s penis lightly with his thumb, and that was it. Castiel let out a choked cry as he shuddered against Dean, collapsing towards him. And Dean continued to hold him up, even as he thrust against his thigh, chanting, “Come on, come on, Cas—” until he too hit his peak.  
   
Castiel’s eyelids fluttered as he sagged to the floor. Dean, now feeling quite boneless, fell with him. By some mutual, silent agreement, they sprawled together among the hay, allowing their breathing to quiet, hands clasped loosely together.  
   
“So,” Dean said after a few minutes, when he was sure his vocal cords would work properly. “How was my argument?”  
   
Castiel rolled over jerkily to face him. “Very persuasive,” he said.  
   
“Oh.” Dean smiled to himself. “Good.”  
   
“Mmhmm,” Castiel mumbled. He flopped gracelessly closer to Dean. “I just broke about three different laws,” he said, dazed, the thought not really penetrating past the post orgasmic haze. “My father is going to kill me.”  
   
“Not here,” Dean pointed out. “Not if he doesn’t find out.”  
   
“But what if he does?”  
   
Dean yawned. “Bobby will give you asylum.”  
   
“That’s not very comforting,” Castiel told him.  
   
“Well, I won’t kiss and tell.”  
   
“That was more than.” Castiel cleared his throat. “That was more than a kiss.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean drawled. He snuck a hand around Castiel’s shoulders. “It was, wasn’t it?”  
   
“Ugh,” Castiel said, even as he allowed Dean to pull him closer. “I’m going to hell.”  
   
“Nah,” Dean said. “You’re way too polite to make like a demon.”  
   
“Dean, this is serious,” Castiel said, his stomach now feeling a bit queasy as the full impact of what he had done began to hit him. “Dean, I could be arrested, disowned, even hung—”  
   
“Cas.” Dean pushed himself into a sitting position as Castiel lurched upright. “Cas, stop. Breathe, all right?”  
   
“I’m trying.” Castiel put his head between his knees.  
   
“None of that’s going to happen,” Dean said. “Not here, all right?” He gathered Castiel’s hands to him. “I promise you, all right?”  
   
Castiel nodded, face still hidden. Dean sighed, then slid over to rub at his back.  
   
“If you don’t want anyone to know, then no one has to know,” he said quietly. “I won’t tell a soul.” His chest twinged a little, but he ignored it as he added, “I won’t even tell Sammy if you don’t want. We can pretend like it never happened.”  
   
“No.” Castiel emerged, face pale but resolute. “No, Dean. I don’t.” He bit his lip. “I don’t want to, to pretend.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
Castiel turned his hand over to clasp at Dean’s. Dean wet his lips.  
   
“So we’re still, uh. You’re not,” he pressed his lips together, “you know.”  
   
Castiel sighed. “I don’t think this is something I can put back into the box, Dean,” he said. “Like you said, it’s not going to go away. I’m not going to stop…” he colored, coughing a little as he said, “wanting you.” His voice got quieter. “I’m different no matter whether I act on it or not. At least this way…” He shrugged.  
   
“Damn, Cas,” Dean said. “Don’t think like that.”  
   
Castiel looked away.  
   
“I don’t want you to be miserable.”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel’s voice was soft as he met his gaze again. “I promise you. I’m not. I could never be miserable with you.”  
   
Dean flushed. “Well,” he said gruffly, “good.”  
   
“I would appreciate it if we could keep this between us.” Castiel tilted his head. “I still would not want any of my countrymen to discover it.”  
   
“All right,” Dean said easily. “If that’s what you want.” He hesitated. “Uh, Sam might already suspect something, though. He’s pretty quick, that kid.”  
   
“And you have few secrets from him,” Castiel said knowledgably.  
   
“Barely any.” Dean blew air out of the corner of his mouth. “We’ve always been close. Especially since our father was, well. Our father.”  
   
“I understand.” Castiel bowed his head. “I don’t mind if you tell him. So long as he tells no one else.”  
   
“He’s a good kid.” Dean slowly got to his feet, offering Castiel a hand, which Castiel accepted. “He won’t tell anyone.”  
   
Castiel nodded. He brushed dirt and straw off his backside, straightening his shirt and jacket. “Are we presentable to return?”  
   
“Uh,” said Dean. His eyes flickered down to Castiel’s crotch. Castiel followed, glancing down as well.  
   
“Oh,” he said, fumbling with the still-open buttons on his trousers. “Right.”  
   
Dean covered his mouth with his hand, as if covering up a laugh. “We’ll go in the back way. If anyone’s still up, they’re at the gathering, anyway.”  
   
Castiel’s expression flooded with relief. “Oh good,” he said. He tried to straighten his clothes again, and grimaced. “I don’t think we’ll ever be any amount of presentable.”  
   
“Hey,” Dean said, “at least you don’t have a big old stain on your trousers.” He glowered as Castiel snorted. “People are going to talk,” Dean complained.  
   
“That must be so difficult for you.”  
   
“Shut up.”  
   
Castiel smirked a little, turning towards the door.  
   
“Wait,” Dean said. He snagged at his wrist, pulling him back.  
   
“What? Oh—” Castie’s eyes went wide as Dean planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth.  
   
“There,” Dean said, releasing him. He laughed as Castiel wiped at his mouth. “One for the road.”  
   
“There is no road,” Castiel said severely. “Why was that one slobbery?”  
   
Dean snickered again. “Here,” he said. “I’ll give you a better one.”  
   
Castiel fixed him with a look, but leaned in anyway. This time, Dean was careful, pressing firmly against Castiel’s lips, leaving with a quick swipe of the tongue.  
   
“Better?”  
   
“Acceptable.”  
   
Dean smacked at his arm. “You’re a little shit.”  
   
Castiel drew himself up. “I’m older than you,” he declared.  
   
“So? Still shorter.”  
   
“Faster.”  
   
“Doesn’t mean you’re not shorter.”  
   
Castiel sniffed. “I need to change my clothes,” he said, tugging free of Dean and heading out the door. He began to walk towards the main entrance, but Dean steered him in a different direction.  
   
“We’re going in the back way, remember?”  
   
“Yes, of course.”  
   
“Sure you did.”  
   
“Yes.” A beat. “I did.”  
   
“Uh huh. Through here.” Dean ducked through an archway, Castiel following.  
   
“Does this go through the kitchens?”  
   
“How’d you guess?”  
   
“It wasn’t difficult,” Castiel said wryly, pointing to a slops pile. He held his hand over his nose.  
   
“Yeah, gets messy here when they prepare for the gatherings,” Dean said. He creaked open a door and peered around the corner. “Looks empty. Come on.”  
   
They hurried through the kitchen, which seemed mostly deserted at this point, though they did hear some banging coming down from the wine cellar. Dean led Castiel unerringly through a series of back corridors, and before Castiel had quite managed to get his bearings, they were in front of his door.  
   
“Well,” said Dean. He looked like he was trying to keep a straight face, shifting a little from foot to foot, but couldn’t contain the flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “I hope your evening was suitably entertaining.”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms. “It was certainly…educational.”  
   
“Educational? Really, Cas?” Dean was suddenly in front of him, crowding him towards the door. Castiel lifted his chin.  
   
“A very educational cross cultural exchange,” he deadpanned, placing his hand on Dean’s chest to keep him from getting any closer. “Dean, stop. Someone might see.”  
   
“No one’s watching.”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
Dean drew back with a sigh. “Fine, fine,” he grumbled, sticking his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He leered. “At the _stables_.”  
   
“I’ve made a mistake,” Castiel realized. “You’re going to be insufferable about this.”  
   
Dean grinned at him.  
   
“Goodnight,” Castiel said firmly, pushing at the door.  
   
“Night, Cas.” Dean’s smile was softer this time. He turned away to start towards his own quarters, giving a little wave. Castiel shook his head as he watched him go, before he opened the door the rest of the way and slipped inside.

  
#

  
If Dean had any hopes that he was going to get through the rest of the night without explaining what had happened to his little brother, they were unceremoniously dashed as soon as he stepped into his bedroom.  
   
“So,” Sam said, lounging on his bed. He sat up, putting his book aside. It was one of the ones Dean had borrowed, actually. The most boring architecture one, of course. “How did it go?”  
   
Dean allowed himself a lascivious wink as he headed towards his closet. “You really want the finer details, Sammy?”  
   
“Ugh, gross, Dean. No!” Sam made a face as Dean kicked off his boots and began to hunt around for his nightshirt. “But are you and Castiel—are you all right?”  
   
“We’re good, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was muffled as he pulled off his shirt. “Real good.”  
   
“So then you…?”  
   
“I thought you didn’t want any details.”  
   
“I don’t, I don't.” Sam got off the bed and padded towards Dean. “But I do want to know if you’re, you know.” He shrugged.  
   
Dean was silent for a moment, adjusting the sleeves on his nightshirt. “We are,” he said. “But it’s uh, it’s kind of complicated.”  
   
Sam frowned. “Complicated?”  
   
“Yeah, uh.” Dean sighed. He moved over to his bed and sat on it. Sam sat down next to him. “You can’t tell anyone. Not even Jo. All right?”  
   
“Why?”  
   
Dean leaned back, placing his hands underneath his head. “It’s not allowed. Cas could get in trouble.”  
   
Sam gnawed on his lower lip. “What do you mean? Is he already engaged or something? Dean, you know if he’s already promised to someone else—”  
   
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Dean moved his hands so now they rested on top of his stomach. “It’s us,” he said to the ceiling. “In Eden, men aren’t, uh, they don’t like it when they’re, uh…”  
   
“Oh,” said Sam, his eyes widening in realization. “ _Oh_.”  
   
“What do you mean, ‘oh’?” Dean pushed himself back up again. “Did you already know about this?”  
   
Sam shook his head quickly, though his expression remained thoughtful. “No, no. I didn’t. I swear, Dean.” He nodded to himself. “But that would make a lot of sense.”  
   
“Uh, it would?” Dean snorted. “I was pretty blindsided, myself.”  
   
“You haven’t been reading about Eden for the past couple of months.”  
   
“Well I borrowed a bunch of yours,” Dean pointed out, “and it sure as hell wasn’t mentioned in any of those.” He flipped the corner of the coverlet back and forth. “But now I know that there are thirty seven bridges in the city of Eden, because that’s useful,” he muttered.  
   
“Actually, there are thirty eight,” Sam said. “That book’s dated.”  
   
Dean ignored him. “Anyway,” he said. “Nothing about forbidden relationships and—I mean, Cas was going on about _sin_. He was seriously nervous. It’s a big deal.”  
   
Sam wet his lips. “There’s a, um, a character,” he said, “kind of like the big bad guy in a lot of the mythology.”  
   
Dean raised an eyebrow. “What, and he liked men so now it’s bad because of him?”  
   
 “It was kind of vague,” Sam admitted, “but this fellow—Lucifer—he was a prince, right? And he was hung for treason, then came back from the dead as a demon to terrorize the country—”  
   
“And this is a legend?” Dean interrupted. He crossed his legs, turning towards Sam, who nodded.  
   
“Yeah, more like an epic, I guess. I mean, they probably have some sort of historical basis, but not like Colt, you know?”  
   
“All right. And?”  
   
“Well, on the list of reasons he was hung, and it was long, like thirty lines of poem—”  
   
“Sounds thrilling.”  
   
“Shut up. One of his crimes was a ‘deep’ friendship with another fellow. I thought maybe the other man was supposed to be a criminal or something, but maybe that’s not what it meant. Maybe it was a reference to, uh, men with men.”  
   
“Could be.” Dean pursed his lips. “I can ask Cas about it.”  
   
“Would you?” Sam’s face lit up. “I’d ask him myself, but I figure it might be kind of sensitive.”  
   
“Yeah, sure.” Dean propped his chin up in his hands. “Even if that is part of why though, still doesn’t change the fact that Cas was really upset.” He lay back down again. “I just don’t want to tread wrong, you know? I don’t want to do anything he doesn’t want.”  
   
“That why he ran off?”  
   
Dean grunted and rolled over onto his stomach. He dropped his face onto his arms. “He’s prickly.”  
   
“He’s probably scared,” Sam said sensibly. Dean groaned his agreement. “Anyway, he’s not a pushover. He could have said no.”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean exhaled. “I guess.” He closed his eyes as he said quietly, “I don’t want him to, though.”  
   
Sam peered at him. “You really like him.”  
   
“Shut up.”  
   
“I’ve never seen you act like this before.”  
   
“Shut _up_ , Sammy.” Dean flopped over to punch him in the thigh. Sam slapped his hand away.  
   
“I was going to give you advice,” he said, nose in the air.  
   
“I don’t need your advice.”  
   
Sam gave a harrumph, crossing his arms. Dean rubbed his temples.  
   
“Fine. What?”  
   
“Well, if you don’t even _want_ any advice—”  
   
“Sam,” Dean interrupted, “tell me what your damn advice is, and then get out of my room. I’ve had a very trying night.”  
   
“I’ll bet,” Sam said dryly.  
   
“Sam. I swear to God—”  
   
“You have to court him,” Sam said in a rush.  
   
Dean wrinkled his nose. “I have to what now? Cas isn’t a _girl_.”  
   
“Don’t be an ass, I know that,” Sam snapped. He took a deep breath. “He has to trust you,” he said, this time more quietly.  
   
“He does trust me,” Dean said. He made a face. “I mean, I would assume. We’ve hunted together.”  
   
“No,” Sam insisted. “A different kind of trust. He has to trust that you’re not trying to, I don’t know, take advantage of him or something. That you’re not going to betray him. That you really want him.”  
   
“I think he’s pretty clear on that last part.”  
   
“Well, focus on the first two then. Dean, if what you told me is right, he’s probably sitting in his room right now, panicking or something.” Dean immediately sat up, but Sam put a hand on his arm, staying him. “No, you can’t go to him now,” he said. “Didn’t he tell you that he needed time to think?” He shook his head as Dean slumped back down again. “That’s why you have to court him,” he said. “You need to keep reassuring him.”  
   
“Since when are you an expert on romance?” Dean asked suspiciously.  
   
Sam lifted his chin. “Jess has been lending me some of her novels,” he said, very dignified. “They’re quite instructive.”  
   
“Oh my _God_ ,” Dean covered his face with his hands. “Get out.”  
   
“You should take my advice,” Sam insisted, even as he got off the bed and headed towards the door, straightening his nightcoat with sharp little tugs.  
   
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it.” Dean shooed him out, collapsing back onto the bed as soon as the door clicked shut again. He rubbed at his forehead. “Fuck,” he said with feeling. “How the hell do you even court a man?”


	8. Chapter 8

“We’re going on a picnic,” Dean announced, as soon as Castiel had turned the corner around the stables. Castiel halted, looking uncertain.  
   
“Pardon?”  
   
“A picnic,” Dean repeated. He cracked his neck from side to side, trying not to feel awkward, and held up a lumpy burlap sack. “I brought food. It’s good, I swear.”  
   
Castiel blinked. “All right,” he said finally. His eyebrows drew together. “But, why…?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “We haven’t done too many long rides yet,” he said. “Might as well have lunch, too.”  
   
“If you say so,” Castiel said, still looking a bit skeptical. Dean was tempted to tell him that if he kept that look for much longer, his face was going to get stuck like that, but he held his peace.  
   
“I do,” he said instead, refusing to admit that after a week and a half of trying to come up with something that counted as ‘courting’, this was the least humiliating thing he could think of.  
   
It didn’t help, he thought, that Rufus had already sent them on another hunt—werewolves, this time—and they had barely had enough privacy for a few stolen kisses, let alone, of all things, _romance_. However, it had been Castiel’s first hunt on horseback and, while he had done better than Dean might have predicted, Dean had decided immediately upon their return that now that Castiel could ride a horse like a hunter, their next target was stamina.  
   
The picnic just happened to fit into his greater plans.  
   
At least they had the werewolf hunt to thank for the time off, Dean thought. Even if the long ride had tired Castiel out—and Dean could see that he still had circles under his eyes—they would still have tomorrow to recuperate. He smiled to himself. Or maybe to do other, more interesting things, if Castiel was up for it.  
   
“What are you smiling about?”  
   
“Hmm?” Dean looked up. “Oh, nothing, nothing.” He gave Castiel a friendly smack between the shoulder blades, hand inching down to squeeze his buttocks. Castiel threw him a glare. “Get your horse tacked up,” Dean said breezily.  
   
“He has a name, you know,” Castiel grumped, even as he headed towards his gelding’s stall.  
   
“Bumblebee is a terrible name for a horse,” Dean said. “He responds better if you just call him ‘horse’.” He listened for a second, then shook his head. “‘People keep asking me if you lost a bet, you know!” he called, then grinned, greeting Impala with a gentle pat as Castiel loftily ignored him, continuing to speak to the horse in low, childlike tones.  
   
“You brought him more snacks, didn’t you?” Dean accused, as Castiel led his now fully saddled mount out of the stall. He cinched his own saddle around Impala’s midsection, feeling around to make sure of the fit.  
   
“I would never,” Castiel said. And though his voice was very even, his face still managed to look spectacularly guilty.  
   
“Uh huh,” said Dean, amused. He brushed past Castiel, saying over his shoulder, “Mount up.”  
   
When Castiel made no move to do any such thing, Dean shot him a quizzical look, only to find Castiel eyeing him with an expression of serious consideration. Dean scratched the back of his neck.  
   
“What?”“  
   
Castiel blinked at him innocently. Then, first darting a look around to make sure that the stables were truly empty of any other patrons, he leaned in towards Dean, planting a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth. He was gone nearly as fast. Unconsciously, Dean swayed forward a little, then back, putting a hand up against Impala, steadying himself against the warmth of her.  
   
“What was that for?” he asked. He kept his hands away from touching his lips only through sheer force of will.  
   
“Wanted to,” Castiel said, already turning away and climbing onto Bumblebee’s back. Dean allowed the corners of his mouth to crook upward.  
   
“Well, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I mean. That was. Uh.”  
   
“Get on your horse, Dean,” Castiel told him.  
   
“Right,” Dean muttered. He hoisted himself onto Impala. “Ready?” he queried, turning to face Castiel. He was somewhat tickled to see that the back of Castiel’s neck was a little pinker than usual; perhaps he hadn’t been so unaffected as he was acting.  
   
Castiel inclined his head. “Lead the way,” he said. “I’ll follow you.”  
   
They had hunted the pack of werewolves deep in the woods to the south, so today Dean led them northeast to the cliffs bordering the city wall, wanting to expose Castiel to a part of the country untainted by memories of the hunt. He chose a path that took them almost straight to the steepest of them, and when they approached the first of the cragged rock walls, he could hear Castiel behind him making noises of concern. He reined Impala in, stopping beside a large maple tree, and allowing his companion to catch up.  
   
“Will the horses be able to make this?” Castiel asked, staring up at the side of the cliffs. It was an impressive view to be sure, the mottled tan of the sandstone reared up in blocky lines, more than one stream trickling down through the cracks in the rock, joining the brook that ran below their horses’ feet.  
   
“They’ll be fine,” Dean said confidently. He pointed upwards. “It’s pretty flat up top,” he said, “until you get even further east, to the real mountains. Anyway.” He took up the reins again. “There’s a little trail that leads up. Impala’s been that way plenty of times.”  
   
“If you say so.” Castiel shifted in his saddle, then reached for the reins obediently.  
   
True to Dean’s word, he did not try for an immediate vertical ascent, but rather took them parallel to the cliff wall, until it angled downward. Dean followed the slope of it, skirting Impala around some blocks that had tumbled down, and then leading them towards an almost invisible trail between the rocks. Though skeptical, Castiel stayed on his heels. He was rewarded when a sharp turn to the right revealed itself to be the base of a much gentler looking path, though it still skewed up. He urged his horse on, spotting Dean already several feet above him, and still climbing.  
   
They emerged onto a plain of sparse grasses. Dean halted, turning to look towards the west. Castiel followed suit, and was pleasantly surprised by the picture that greeted him. He could see down into the walls of the city, true, but beyond that, the spread of the forest and the sands of the bay were picture perfect, the morning sun at just the right angle to accentuate the blue of the water. To the south, he quickly found the sinuous green of the Lawrence River, its slow waters nearly engulfed by trees, and in the far off distance, he could spot the tall rocks that ringed Great Moon Bay, making it such a secure haven for the communities it encompassed.  
   
“Pretty nice, huh?” Dean said. He leaned forward against Impala’s neck, stroking her.  
   
Castiel nodded his agreement. “It’s beautiful.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, quiet. “I guess it is.” He turned Impala to face east again. Up here, the forest had given way to grass, though Castiel could see trees again in the distance, and beyond that, the mountains marking the entrance to the borderlands. He knew from experience that they were still many leagues off, and the fact that he could even see the shape of them now only drove home how very tall they were.  
   
The direction of the ride was such that by the time the heat of the early summer sun began to beat down on their backs, they were already below the cool shade of the pine trees. Dean continued on at a steady walk, taking them deeper into the woods, where cedars crowded together with fern and huckleberry bushes, and sparse shafts of sunlight dipped down between gaps in the canopy.  
   
Castiel supposed that some—Gabriel, perhaps—might have found it odd that he and Dean exchanged few words as they rode. However, the comfortable silence between them spoke volumes on its own, and Castiel was content to watch the trees around them, occasionally spotting squirrels and rabbits, and perpetually serenaded by one bird or another.  
   
An hour or so past their entrance into the forest, Castiel inquired as to their eventual destination.  
   
“I’ve got somewhere I want to take you,” Dean responded. He halted for a moment at a fork in the trail. When Castiel caught up to him, he added, “It’s a nice spot. Sammy and I used to come here sometimes, when we were younger.”  
   
Castiel nodded as Dean unerringly swung Impala’s head around to take the right path. As Dean and Impala disappeared into the shadows of the foliage, Castiel tried to imagine him younger, without the weight of the hunter corps on his shoulders, taking his younger brother up to the hills just because they could.  
   
Like an old dream, it wavered in front of him before vanishing into the lines of Dean’s back, the solidness of his voice in the here and now, asking Castiel just what the hell was taking him so long. Castiel smiled to himself, let the dream drift away, and picked up the pace.  
   
After another few hours of riding however, Castiel began to wish that Dean had been a little more detailed in his response. As a soldier, he was well aware that it was not his place to question his superior officers. However, as they weren’t technically on a hunt, and also since he and Dean shared a relationship of a rather different sort than the typical, Castiel figured that in this case he was allowed some leeway.  
   
“When are we going to eat?” Castiel called, urging his horse forward. Predictably, and somewhat gallingly, Dean’s immediate response was a laugh.  
   
“Hungry already, Cas?”  
   
“It is past midday,” Castiel retorted.  
   
“How would you know? Can barely see the sun with all these trees.”  
   
Castiel huffed. “I have an excellent sense of time,” he said, dignified. His stomach growled. “Also, I’m hungry.”  
   
“Hold your horses,” came Dean’s voice, lightly teasing. “We’re almost there.”  
   
“Almost _where_?” Castiel muttered to himself, exasperated. His sore muscles still hadn’t quite recovered since the last hunt, he had an itch on a part of his back that he couldn’t reach, and he was getting tired of spending his days on horseback.  
   
“Just up ahead if you’d stop dawdling,” Dean shouted.  
   
With a sigh, Castiel continued to follow the sounds of him. A few more steps, and the trail curved, before widening out into a clearing. Castiel blinked into the sudden brightness of the sunlight and meadow before him. His mouth formed into an O.  
   
“See,” said Dean, sidling up to him with a smug grin on his face. He had already dismounted from Impala, and led her along next to him. “Worth the trip?”  
   
Wordlessly, Castiel nodded, drinking in the sight of the yellow and purple wildflowers swaying in the breeze, the vivid green grasses and clover rippling lush beneath their feet. He could hear the gentle sound of a stream tinkling in the distance.  
   
“There’s a little waterfall and a pool just off that way,” Dean said, pointing. He smiled up at Castiel. “Wanna go for a swim?”  
   
“You seem very partial to waterfalls,” Castiel commented. He dismounted, his aching muscles making him clumsier than usual. Dean caught his elbow as he stumbled. He righted himself. “My back has an itch,” he complained, indicating.  
   
“That wasn’t a no,” Dean said, even as he obediently scratched at the offending spot. Castiel slumped a little in relief.  
   
“Very well,” he said, after a moment. He rolled his shoulders, deliberately casual, and stepped away from Dean, reaching for his horse’s reins. “Let’s go see your waterfall.”  
   
Despite the nonchalance in his voice, as soon as Dean turned away, Castiel bit his lip. Even with all that they had done together, he and Dean had never truly seen each other naked. In Eden, public baths and mixed gender nudity were a way of life, but here? He knew Dean’s people placed a lot more on the issue than he did—was this meant to be some sort of seduction? But what if he was misreading it? What if it was casual, just like back in Eden?  
   
He startled a little as Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed him stopping.  
   
“Cas, man. Don’t get so worked up. You don’t have to swim if you don’t want to. But the pool’s not that deep.”  
   
Castiel bristled. “I know perfectly well how to swim.”  
   
Dean dropped his hand, placing it on his own hip. “Yeah, I’m sure you do, Cas. I’m just saying: if you don’t want to swim, you don’t have to. That’s all.”  
   
Castiel immediately felt bad. “No, I do,” he said. “I want to see the waterfall,” he clarified.  
   
“All right,” Dean said. Castiel felt the warmth of him move away. “Come on.”  
   
As they strode through the meadow with silence between them, Castiel began to worry that he had somehow managed to offend Dean. His worries were assuaged however, when Dean reached down between them and grabbed for Castiel’s hand, squeezing it. Despite his nerves, Castiel felt the tense knot in his chest loosen a little.  
   
They followed a creek winding through the meadow for a few minutes until Dean, tugging at him, headed towards the ring of trees surrounding them. His aim became clearer when they clambered up the side of a larger, rocky hillock, leaving the horses to graze below. As soon as they reached the top, Dean pointed.  
   
“There.”  
   
Castiel followed his finger to spot the gleam of blue below them. He cocked his head, surveying the ‘pool’ with one raised eyebrow. “Dean,” he said flatly. “That’s not a pool. That’s a lake.”  
   
“Oh, is it?” Dean shrugged, smiling. Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.  
   
“And the waterfall?” He could hear it somewhere, he was sure, but he couldn't see it. That always meant bad things.  
   
“Comes out the cave mouth just below us,” Dean told him brightly, as Castiel dropped to his knees to peer over the edge of the cliff. He immediately got a good faceful of spray for his trouble. Meanwhile, Dean reached for the hem of his shirt.  
   
“I think you may need to work on your vocabulary,” Castiel said solemnly, turning back around. “I’m a little concerned that—Dean. Why is your shirt off?”  
   
“Can’t go swimming with my shirt on, Cas.”  
   
Castiel began to get another horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He jerked his thumb back towards the water. “The lake is down there.”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean began to unlace the front of his trousers. Castiel stared.  
   
“We’re up here.”  
   
“Yep.”  
   
“Dean, that’s at least a twenty foot drop.” Castiel rose and approached him.  
   
“Hmm, so it is.” Dean’s trousers pooled around his feet. He stepped out of them, bent down, and handed them, his boots, and his shirt to Castiel, who took the garments numbly, his heart beginning to beat faster.  
   
“Dean, you’re not,” he said, clutching the clothes to his chest reflexively.  
   
Dean winked at him, and Castiel had a moment to both mourn and be relieved at the fact that he still hadn’t removed his loincloth (not that it hid much) before Dean shimmied his hips a little, swung his arms, and with a yell took a running leap off the edge.  
   
In the seconds between Dean’s jump, his subsequent splash, and his head bobbing up to the surface again, Castiel was certain his heart must have stopped and restarted half a dozen times. When it became abundantly clear that Dean hadn’t killed himself, Castiel strode over to peer over the edge of the cliff. Dean, doing lazy backstrokes in the water, waved at him.  
   
“Are you insane?” Castiel shouted, voice cracking.  
   
“Come on, Cas!” Dean swam over to the side of the lake and hauled himself out of the water. “Water’s nice after the ride we had!”  
   
Castiel spent a good few moments admiring the droplets glistening down Dean’s well-muscled physique, especially his shoulders, before shaking his head to clear it.  
   
“It seems extremely ill advised!” he retorted, resisting the urge to fling Dean’s clothes down into the lake as revenge for giving him such a fright. Instead, bundle in hand, he began to climb down what looked like a passable section of the cliff, heading towards the shoreline. The rocks skittered down before him, some of them making it far enough to plop into the water like a miniature avalanche.  
   
“You sure?” Dean asked him, as Castiel came up to him, holding out his clothes. He took them, but did not put them back on, grin starting to tug at the corners of his mouth as he noticed Castiel clearly struggling to keep his gaze above Dean’s waist.  
   
“Indubitably,” Castiel said. He tried to form his mouth into a scowl, but his eyes twinkled, giving him away. He didn’t protest as Dean reached for his arm and pulled him into a kiss. As soon as they separated though, he poked him in the stomach. “You said there was to be food.”  
   
Dean sighed theatrically, yanking his trousers back on over his wet skin. “You’ve got a one track mind, Cas,” he said.  
   
“I’m hungry.”  
   
“The food’s in my saddlebags,” Dean relented. He lifted his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Not a minute later, Impala came trotting around a pile of rocks, head held high. Dean went to her. “Hey there, sweetheart,” he said, as she snorted at him. “Yeah, just let me get the bag, all right?”  
   
Castiel watched as Dean rummaged through his saddlebag before pulling out the sack with triumph. He smacked Impala lightly on the rump and she took off back to the meadow as Dean turned to him, burlap in his hands swinging lightly from side to side.  
   
“Lunch?”  
   
“Please,” Castiel said. He sat down on a rock, expecting to eat cold bread and dried meat the way they had during the hunts, and so was utterly surprised when Dean reached into the bag and first withdrew a folded cloth.  
   
“What?” he muttered, his ears going pink as Castiel’s eyebrows shot up questioningly. “I said it was a picnic, didn’t I?” He shook out the cloth. “Help me spread this out, would you?”  
   
Bemused, Castiel got to his feet and grabbed the other end. Together, they moved a little ways up from the shore, where scrubby grass met pebbly beach, and laid it down there. Castiel sat back down again, and watched with mounting amusement as Dean began to unpack what appeared to be quite a feast.  
   
“Bread rolls,” said Dean. “Cheese, dried beef, wine in the flask, some peaches—”  
   
“It’s a bit early for those, isn’t it?” Castiel commented even as he took one to sniff.  
   
“Got a shipment of them from down south,” Dean said. He pulled out another dish. “Oh, and a pie.” He placed that item down in the center of the cloth with reverence. “There.” He beamed, looking quite proud. “Eat up!”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said, a slight suspicion taking hold of him as he squeezed the peach in his hands to feel for its ripeness, “did you prepare all of this yourself?”  
   
“Well, I—” Dean coughed. “You have to have a pie for a picnic, Cas!”  
   
“That was very kind of you, Dean,” Castiel said. He bit into a peach, murmuring in appreciation as the flavor exploded across his tongue. A few of the juices dripped down his chin and he swiped his hand across his face. “No one’s ever made a picnic for me before.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, not looking at him. “Just eat your peach, would you?” He snagged a piece of bread and a hunk of cheese, and stuffed it into his mouth.  
   
They passed the remainder of the lunch fairly quietly, content to first gorge, then nibble, on the fruits of Dean’s efforts. When they had eaten all they could, they lazed about on the blanket, soaking up sunlight like a pair of bloated lizards.  
   
“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, aimlessly watching the clouds drift by. There were some darker ones to the north, but the ones above his head were perfectly white and fluffy. “How’s your tattoo healing up?”  
   
With the food and the sun making his eyes feel quite heavy, Castiel was, perhaps, not guarding his mouth as well as he might have done. “It’s good,” he murmured. “Want to see it?”  
   
Dean sat up very quickly, clutching his stomach with a groan as he did so. “Is that an offer?”  
   
“Um,” said Castiel, “Maybe?” He chanced a peek through the slits in his eyelids. Next to him, he could see Dean, face shadowed as he blocked the sun, but he was clearly smiling.  
   
“I think it was.”  
   
“Oh.” Castiel struggled to a sitting position. “It’s kind of hard to see like this,” he murmured. "My trousers are in the way." Dean half-crept half sort of rolled the rest of the way over to Castiel. The warmth of his thigh rested against Castiel’s side.  
   
“Cas,” Dean said. “Take them off.”  
   
And Castiel, who only a few weeks ago would have fled the scene entire, must have been possessed by some creature in the interim for rather than reaching down to undo the buttons himself, he said, flinging his arms up to shield his face from the sun, “I’m too tired to move. You do it.”  
   
Of course, as soon as Dean huffed out a “Fine,” and reached for him, Castiel found himself scrabbling away.  
   
“No, no. I misspoke. I’ll do it,” he said, willing the heat in his cheeks to recede. His fingers were clumsy as he tried for the button, until Dean’s steady hands covered his own, stilling them.  
   
“You do it,” Dean said softly, and withdrew. Castiel exhaled and nodded. He set his shoulders, and managed to undo the buttons on his trousers. Biting his lip, aware of Dean’s eyes on him the entire time, he slowly slid them down his legs.  
   
“There,” he said, the even tone of his voice belying the shakiness he felt. He curled his hands to his sides, though he automatically wanted to reach up and cover his lap. Dean was immediately next to him again. The roughness of his finger brushed against the soft, exposed skin of Castiel’s hip.  
   
“Can I?” asked Dean.  
   
Castiel swallowed. “Go ahead,” he said, not recognizing the gravel of his own voice. Dean certainly took his words to heart though, if the way he reverently traced the circles of the small design was any indication.  
   
“Got to make sure the line’s aren’t broken. Otherwise the seal won’t hold.”  
   
“Yes I—” Castiel licked his lips. “I know.”  
   
“Well, good.” Dean’s finger continued to move along the inky black lines, stark against the white of Castiel’s flesh. “You still worried about what could happen if someone from your family see this?”  
   
“It’s um, a little concerning,” Castiel admitted, muscles twitching reflexively as Dean continued his motions. Goosebumps sprung up along his arms. He began to pray that the hem of his shirt covered his crotch. “Though not as worrisome as if they were to find out, um. Other things.”  
   
“Other things?”  
   
“That I, um.” Castiel’s breath hitched and he let out an inadvertent squeak as Dean bent his head down to now follow the pattern of the tattoo with his tongue instead. “That I prefer the company of—of men, for example.”  
   
“Ah, right,” Dean said. The warmth of his breath ghosted over Castiel’s bare hip. “Not fans of sodomy and the like.” He surged upwards and whispered into Castiel’s ear. “Want to know what I say about that?”  
   
Castiel shuddered. “What?” he couldn’t help but whisper back. Dean grinned.  
   
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”  
   
“Dean—” Castiel’s gasp was cut off as Dean suddenly kissed him, licking into his mouth filthily, in a way that stole the air from Castiel’s lungs. Castiel clawed weakly at Dean’s back even as he was lowered to the ground.  
   
“Do you want to?”  
   
“Do I want to…?” Castiel managed, trying to get his brain to focus. It was a difficult thing to do, with Dean so close, his skin like burning where it made contact with Castiel’s.  
   
“You know.” Dean nibbled on his ear. “You’re not technically a sodomite until you’ve done the deed.”  
   
“I,” Castiel said. His mind whirled, attempting to understand what Dean was saying. “You mean?” His eyes darted from side to side. “Here? Now?”  
   
“Where else?”  
   
“You want to,” Castiel was having some trouble getting the words out. “Here. With me.”  
   
“Of course with you.” Dean gave him a look that was half exasperated, half fond.  
   
Castiel’s vocal cords were still refusing to cooperate.  “I…”  
   
Dean nodded, as if he had been expecting that answer. “I’d like to,” he said, brushing the back of his hand down Castiel’s arm. He then sat back on his haunches, giving Castiel a little more space. “But we don’t have to.”  
   
Castiel, his hair mussed and his face red, propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “I’ve never…”  
   
Dean shrugged. “We don’t have to,” he repeated. “But,” and here he smiled, small and a bit secret, “I like it.”  
   
“You—?” Castiel made a conscious effort to shut his opened mouth. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks pink.  
   
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s uh. It’s pretty good, actually.”  
   
“Did you, um, did you _receive_ , or, ah.”  
   
Dean turned a darker shade of red. He cleared his throat, looking at the ground. “Both,” he confessed, “I uh. I like both. So.” He waved hand vaguely. “So, uh, if you want to be the, er, the _sword_ , so to speak—”  
   
Castiel’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “No,” he said, cutting Dean off.  
   
“No?” Dean blinked  
   
“No, I don’t want that.” Castiel nodded to himself, suddenly decisive. “I want to,” he said. “I want to receive you, Dean. I want to know what it feels like.” _I want to be possessed by you_ , he did not say. _I want to be wholly yours even if it damns me to hell._  
   
Despite his earlier bravado, in the face of Castiel’s agreement, Dean seemed at a loss.  
   
“Oh,” he breathed finally. He took a deep breath, scrubbing at his face. “You sure, Cas?”  
   
In response, Castiel reached slowly for the hem of his shirt. “I wouldn’t have said so if I wasn’t,” he said. He wasn’t quite filled with courage, but he was filled with _something_ , some deep feeling radiating in his chest and through his stomach, making his limbs clumsy but his eyes bright. That was enough.  
   
Dean reached for Castiel’s hands as he began to remove his shirt, and they tugged it over his head together. As soon as the open air hit his chest, Castiel was struck again by the urge to cover himself. He pushed it away, gaze zooming in on Dean.  
   
“Fair is fair, Dean,” he said. “Take off your clothes.”  
   
Slowly, eyes on Castiel the entire time, Dean disrobed once more. When there was nothing left but his loincloth, Dean’s fingers danced above it, and Castiel’s breath caught in his throat.  
   
At home in Eden, despite the relative normalcy of nudity, Castiel had always been too frightened of discovery to really look. Now, as Dean revealed himself, Castiel drank in the sight of him.  
   
“What?” said Dean defensively, after Castiel’s staring became noticeable.  
   
“You have a very nice penis,” Castiel told him.  
   
Dean went bright red this time. “It’s just a cock,” he muttered, though his lips twitched, obviously pleased. The rest of him was pleased too, if the way his body reacted was any indicator. He palmed himself, and Castiel’s mouth went dry.  
   
“Hold on,” Dean said, continuing to touch himself lightly even as he reached for Castiel. “You’ve still got this on.” He tugged at Castiel’s loincloth. Letting out a deep breath, Castiel lifted his hips, and found himself, quite suddenly, completely bared.  
   
“Well?” he said, shivering a little as a breeze off the lake met newly revealed skin. “Now what?”  
   
Dean’s eyes darkened. He licked his lips, and held out his arms. “Come here,” he said.  
   
Castiel went.  
   
Against the chill of the wind and the rough of the blanket, Dean’s body was smooth and warm. Castiel shuddered as their chests pressed together, their hips lining up perfectly. Dean pulled him towards him, into his lap, and Castiel wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist.  
   
They rocked together, Dean’s mouth murmuring sweet and soothing nothings into Castiel’s ear, hands roaming to skid over his arms, massage at the muscles of his back. Castiel’s heart beat faster and faster with each barely-there caress of Dean’s lips to his cheek, dancing kisses down the line of his jaw. Dean’s fingers squeezed at the nape of Castiel’s neck, and Castiel was unable to hold back a whimper.  
   
Dean shifted, rising to his knees, and Castiel found himself flat on his back, his legs already spread wide and up in the air, with Dean between them. He could feel the hardness of him smearing wet across his buttocks. Overcome by the butterflies dancing in his stomach, Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. Positioned thus, he therefore missed the sight of Dean stretching past him to rummage in the sack, and so was completely unprepared for the sound of a vial being popped, and the feel of something slick and cold between his legs.  
   
“What on earth?” Castiel blurted, his eyes shooting open. “Is that _oil_?” Still splayed on his back, he tried to crane his neck to see what exactly Dean was doing, but Dean’s head was in the way, blocking Castiel’s view. Dean looked up.  
   
“Sorry, it’s cold,” he said apologetically. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm the substance.  
   
While Castiel supposed the sentiment was appreciated, Dean had somehow missed answering the important question. Castiel made a face. “But why is there oil?” he asked plaintively.  
   
Suddenly, Dean was kissing him again, trailing an oily hand down Castiel’s chest and grabbing gently hold of him. He pumped his hand, while Castiel did his best not to squirm.  
   
“Because, Cas,” he said when they separated, a string of saliva between them, “clearly you are not a woman.” His thumb flicked over the head, and Castiel bit down hard on his bottom lip, “So we gotta do some preparation.” He grinned, wriggling his fingers. “Ease the way.”  
   
“Preparation?” Castiel repeated. He was sure he had never felt more naïve in his life.  
   
“It’s going to feel odd,” Dean said, as he circled the rim around Castiel’s anus. “Let me know if it hurts.”  
   
Castiel nodded, trying to relax as what was clearly Dean’s finger finally penetrated. It did feel odd, he thought, even burned when Dean added more fingers, dripping with oil. He tensed, resisting the urge to bear down, and Dean patted his stomach in soothing little circles. He lifted his head a little and squinted at Dean.  
   
“You said you enjoyed this?”  
   
“Relax.” Dean wriggled his fingers, adding more oil. “I swear, it’ll get better. There’s something—”  
   
Castiel wasn’t exactly sure what went on between one moment and the next. All he knew was that _something_ had been brushed inside of him, and pleasure had zinged through him like a lightening strike, causing his body to surge up and then collapse back down, leaving him shaking and breathless.  
   
“What…” he croaked, still shuddering with the aftereffects, somewhat surprised to find himself still hard.  
   
“Ah,” said Dean. He prodded inside Castiel again, and Castiel, helpless, let out a moan that would have made Gabriel blush. “Found it.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel panted, clenching bruises into his upper arm, “Dean. What was that? What— _ah_!” He thrashed again.  
   
“It’s just a gland,” Dean said. He smiled wickedly. “Some people aren’t even that sensitive to it.”  
   
“Oh my God,” Castiel said weakly, bringing his hands to his face. Dean leaned over and parted his hands.  
   
“Still with me, Cas? We haven’t even gotten to the main event.”  
   
Castiel fixed him with a serious look. “Then,” he said, “ _Hurry up_ , Dean.”  
   
Dean choked at the expression on his face. “I don’t want to…”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said primly, “your fingers feel very nice.” He wiggled to indicate, his bottom rubbing against the soft cotton of the cloth beneath them. “I’m sure your penis will feel even—” he sighed as Dean lightly brushed that spot again, letting the pleasure roll through him in gentle waves this time, “—even better,” he finished.  
   
“Well,” said Dean, his voice rising a little at the end. He removed his fingers, the corner of his mouth quirking up as Castiel exhaled a little in disappointment. “I mean, if you’re sure—”  
   
“Yes, of course I’m sure,” Castiel said impatiently. He faltered for a second, realizing just what he was asking. “Just, um, go slow at first.”  
   
“Whatever you want, Cas,” Dean mumbled as he fumbled for the vial of oil. He covered himself with it, and then he was back between Castiel’s legs, this time the tip of him nudging at Castiel’s entrance. “Can I?” he grit out.  
   
“ _Please_ ,” Castiel said, voice tight. He tried to keep his eyes open this time, to watch Dean’s face as he slowly entered. Despite the preparation, it still hurt, and Castiel had to remind himself to breathe deeply, to try and relax. He watched as Dean’s mouth contorted, dropping open, his throat working as he pushed further inside Castiel. Castiel let out a strangled gasp as the last of him slid in.  
   
They waited there for a moment. Castiel tried to calm his breathing, tried to focus on the look in Dean’s eyes, the green of them deep with an emotion that Castiel did not want to try and pin down. He unclenched his hand from around Dean’s upper arm, and moved it down to his hip, where he placed it slowly on top of Dean’s as he let loose a wavering smile.  
   
“Come on,” he said. “I want you to.”  
   
At his words, Dean nodded tightly, words apparently beyond him now. His first thrust was shallow, barely even a movement, and it didn’t hit Castiel’s sweet spot. There were other nerves, though, inside, and though his vision didn’t suddenly disintegrate, he hardened even further.  
   
“Come on,” he said, “Just—please, Dean. More.”  
   
Dean swallowed, and pistoned his hips uncertainly a few more times. Looking, perhaps, for just the right angle—  
   
“Oh,” Castiel said, as he felt a familiar heat surge through him. The knuckles on his hands whitened. “Yes, there, Dean, there!”  
   
Now, Dean grinned down at him. “There?” he teased, his hips moving more confidently, rocking into him. Castiel’s mouth sagged open. He clutched at Dean for dear life.  
   
“Yes,” he groaned, as his sweet spot was pressed into over and over again. “Yes, please, Dean. Just— _ah_!”  
   
“Oh, good,” Dean said, thrusting harder now, his rhythm evening out. “I’m so glad I— _uh_ —found it.”  
   
“Yes, yes you found it,” Castiel whimpered, his hips moving of their own accord, unable to keep still. His next moan was cut off when Dean leaned down to capture his mouth, changing the angle of his thrusts just slightly. “Keep going,” he gasped, as soon as he was released. “Ah!”  
   
“I want to make you come, Cas,” Dean told him, his voice harsh and scratchy. “Like this, on my cock, best you’ve ever had—”  
   
“Dean!” Castiel cried, as the rate of Dean’s movements picked up. “I—I—”  
   
“Come on,” Dean grunted. “Want to see you, want to see you just like this, just for me—”  
   
Castiel let out a strangled shout as Dean’s hand closed around him, pumping up and down, just as Dean thrust hard, hitting that spot dead on. He shuddered, eyes squeezed shut, limbs twitching as he came.  
   
Even as he slumped to the ground, utterly drained, he could feel Dean still hard inside him, rutting desperately. With the last of his strength, Castiel reached up to place his hands at the sides of Dean’s head, pulling him towards him into a kiss. Dean made an indistinct, almost pained sounding noise, before his entire body went rigid, and Castiel felt the wet heat of his release inside of him.  
   
Satiated, Dean let out a breath and collapsed on top of Castiel. Castiel’s arms went up and around his shoulders, holding him tightly to him. Together, they allowed their hearts to slow.  
   
After a few moments, Dean lifted his head, blinking sleepy eyes. “Well?”  
   
In response, Castiel yawned, then favored him with an uncharacteristically shy smile. “Well?”  
   
Dean shoved at him, then rolled off with a groan. “Was it everything you ever dreamed?”  
   
“I wouldn’t say _everything_ ,” Castiel hedged. He snickered as Dean glared at him. “Yes, it was very good,” he relented. His hand crept down to find Dean’s. He folded their fingers together. “Thank you,” he said honestly.  
   
Dean groaned, throwing his hands up to cover his face. “Man, don’t make it sound so formal!” he complained. “You don’t have to _thank_ me, just—”  
   
Castiel propped himself up enough to lean over and down, and kissed him. “Thank you,” he repeated after they separated. His eyes twinkled. “It was wonderful.”  
   
Dean didn’t say anything, but his cheeks reddened. He scratched at his belly. Castiel lowered himself back down to the ground.  
   
“I could really do with a nap,” he said, and yawned again.  
   
“Tired you out, huh?”  
   
“Dean.”  
   
“Fine, fine.” A small laugh. “Nap if you want, Cas,” he said. “We have time.”  
   
Obediently, Castiel closed his eyes. He let the wind in the grass, the sloshing waves of the lake, and the sound of Dean’s breathing beside him lull him off to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel stirred when he felt someone shaking his shoulder. “Yes?” he mumbled, still half-asleep. He shifted, more focused on the pleasant hum of his body than on anything happening in the outside world.    
   
“Come on, Cas,” Dean said, sounding entirely too amused. He shook him again. “We’ve got to start heading back if we want to get home any time soon. We kind of overdid it.”  
   
“Ugh.” Castiel cracked open one eye. Dean’s face swam into view above him. “Can’t we stay here for the night?” He stretched out his arms above his head, yawning.  
   
Dean shook his head. “Not if you want to stay dry,” he said, indicating in the direction of the sky. Opening his eyes more fully, Castiel could see what he meant; what had earlier been only a speck of darkness on the horizon, was now a full set of stormy gray clouds. A chill wind blew past them, making the long grass shiver and wave.  
   
“All right,” Castiel sighed. He sat up with a groan, the muscles of his back protesting, and heaved himself to his feet. He looked down, making a face at the dried spunk on his belly. “I could do with a bit of a rinse.”  
   
“Yeah, I already did,” Dean told him. He was almost completely dressed now, bending down to lace up his boots. He nodded towards the lake. “Make it quick.”  
   
Castiel _was_ quick, though that could likely be attributed more to the temperature of the water than anything else. He was rinsed and dressed within five minutes, and had wrestled his feet into his boots within six. He came to stand beside Dean, still rolling his shoulders, and trying to work out the kinks in his back. While Castiel had bathed, Dean had finished packing up the remnants of their lunch. He now whistled for Impala, who they could see standing together with Castiel’s mount near the edge of the meadow.  
   
True to form, Impala came as quickly as Dean bade her. Castiel on the other hand, was forced to slog across the meadow in order to gain the attention of _his_ horse, who was a bit more reluctant to recommence travel.  
   
Castiel’s chase added ten minutes to their departure, but they were on their way soon enough. They made it under the shadow of the trees just as the first light rain began to fall.  
   
It was a very different journey than that morning’s, Dean thought. He snuck a glance behind him at Castiel, who sat with his hood up, his expression far away. Dean was a little afraid to ask what he was thinking. Would Cas come to regret what they had done? Or was he already? Dean gnawed on his lower lip. During these past weeks of their involvement, Cas had seemed more at peace with his proclivities. But then again, after that first night, they had stayed in the realm of relatively chaste kisses, maybe a touch here and there. They had never, well. Today had certainly been more than kisses.  
   
The rain began to fall harder. Castiel shifted in his saddle, clearly uncomfortable, and Dean could have smacked himself.  
   
“Are you doing all right, Cas?” he asked, stopping Impala and twisting to see behind him.  
   
“I’m fine.” Castiel grimaced a little, trying find a better way to sit. “I’m just a little sore.”  
   
Dean cringed at the reminder. Clearly this was his fault: he should have been more careful. “Sorry,” he said. “Let me know if you need to stop.”  
   
Castiel shot him a look, eyebrows slanting disdainfully. “I’m _fine_ , Dean,” he said. “We still have at least two more hours to go. We can’t keep stopping if we want to get home before dark.”  
   
He didn’t say it, but they both knew it: it was dangerous to be out in the forest after dark, even for two hunters.  
   
“Yeah.” Dean faced forward again, nudging Impala to go a little faster. “You’re right.”  
   
They continued on. Though it was still late afternoon, the clouds hid the sunlight, making the interior of the forest gloomy. There was little of the birdsong of earlier, and even though they were, ostensibly, under the cover of the trees, the rain still found spots to fall between the dark green leaves, soaking their cloaks.  
   
At least, Castiel consoled himself, it was proper training for hunting. He straightened from his slump, trying to ward off misery through sheer force of will. Hunters were expected to do their duty in all weather, so he would too.  
   
It was a bit more than an hour on, and nearing the edge of the tree line, when they heard the first ominous roll of thunder. They stopped their horses and exchanged quick, concerned glances. Impala shifted nervously beneath him, and Dean reached to give her a reassuring pat.  
   
“Still sounds pretty far away,” he said. Castiel tilted his head.  
   
“I didn’t see any lightning,” he offered.  
   
Dean licked his lips. “Hopefully it won’t come this way.” He picked up the reins again. “I don’t want to get caught out in the open.”  
   
Though he said nothing, Castiel figured his fervent nod voiced his own agreement well enough.  
   
Unfortunately, the next peal of thunder was quite a bit louder. Despite seeing the flash of light beforehand, Castiel still jumped a little in his saddle.  
   
“I don’t think it’s going to go around,” he said, catching up to Dean, who was glancing up towards the patches of sky visible through the network of leaves. It was easier to see now; they were just on the edge of the grasslands. “Dean?”  
   
“Shit,” Dean muttered. He tapped the side of his cheek, thinking.  
   
“We need to get off this cliff,” Castiel said, a little more urgently as another boom rang out. “Is there somewhere we can take shelter?”  
   
“No.” Dean shook his head, wiping wet hair out of his eyes. “It’s either the trees or the caves down the cliffs.” He indicated the path ahead, where Castiel could see the trees beginning to peter out, giving way to first shrubs, and then the grasslands proper.  
   
“I don’t like either of those options. Lightening could just as well strike the tree we’re standing under.”  
   
“Yeah, no kidding, Cas, me neither.” He pressed his lips together. “If we make a break for it to the edge of the cliff, we might be able to get there before the storm’s directly over us.”  
   
Castiel frowned. “Lightening can travel quite a distance.” He turned a serious gaze on Dean. “I once saw a man struck while we were at sea, with a storm still miles off.”  
   
“Wonderful,” Dean said. The lightening flashed again, illuminating the shadows under his eyes, the lines deepening on his forehead. “You’re definitely making things better, Cas.”  
   
“How far is it to the edge?” Castiel asked.  
   
“About a mile, maybe two.”  
   
Castiel took a settling breath. “We’ll have to be quick.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said, “this may surprise you, but I am very motivated when it comes to not getting caught in the middle of a thunderstorm.”  
   
“Yes, I am shocked,” Castiel deadpanned. His eyes narrowed as he tried to calculate the distance they had to go before reaching the relative safety of the cliff caves. “Do you think we can make it?”  
   
Dean cast a long look towards the north, where the clouds loomed dark and ominous, making the rainclouds directly above them seem docile in comparison. “I think we can sure as hell try,” he said. “We’ll have to walk the horses down the cliff trail though.”  
   
“But we rode up.”  
   
“It’s way too slick now. Better we all just walk down when we get there.”  
   
Castiel inclined his head.  
   
They set out at a faster trot, unwilling to sacrifice the safety of their horses on the slippery, root-tangled trail, for the sake of a little more speed. As soon as they passed the last of the trees however, they broke out into a canter, the horses much more accustomed to running across wide, grassy expanses, wet grass and mud be damned.  
   
As they left the protective shelter of the trees, Castiel clutched his cloak even more tightly around himself. The rain poured harder, significantly lowering the visibility, and Castiel tried to focus on matching his breathing to the gait of his horse, rather than on the paralyzing sense of exposure.  
   
It was a good thing Dean was with him, Castiel thought, for he surely would have gotten lost, or headed back into the forest, with no idea of where to go from there. But Dean knew the route as sure as anything, and as lightening flashed around them, and thunder boomed loud enough to rattle Castiel’s teeth, he only needed to hold on to his horse for dear life as Impala led the way.  
   
They were nearing the edge of the cliffs, though the bay was completely shrouded by clouds. Castiel heard an impossibly loud crack of thunder and realized, somewhat distantly, that the storm was now directly above them. Ahead of him, Impala kicked into a gallop, her hooves churning out grass and bits of mud, as Castiel did his best to follow her, body angled low on the back of his own, frightened mount.  
   
They had just reached the edge of the cliffs, where the trail began to wind steeply down and a small line of cragged pines grew crooked and stubborn right on the edge, when it happened. Dean was at the top of the trail, already dismounted from Impala. As he raced towards them, Castiel felt the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. He could hear a vague buzzing noise in his ear. His eyes widened, and as he opened his mouth to shout a warning, any warning to Dean, there was suddenly a bright white light in front of him, and then the sound of air imploding.  
   
Castiel cried out, covering his ears with his hands, while his horse shied in absolute terror. Through some miracle, he managed to hold on. But as he shook the spots from his vision, eyes watering, he looked up just in time to see Dean crumple to the ground.  
   
Castiel had never gotten off a horse so fast in his life. As soon as he let go of the reins, his horse bolted off down the trail, but Castiel didn’t care. “Dean!” he shouted. “Dean!” As he reached Dean’s body, he fell to his knees, heedless of the mud. Turning him over, Castiel lifted Dean’s wrist and laid his fingers across it, feeling his pulse, and then to the side of his neck. Nothing. Frantically, he stripped away the front of Dean’s shirt and dropped his head to his chest, searching for a heartbeat.  
   
He didn’t find one.  
   
“No,” Castiel said. “No, no, no!” He laid his ear next to Dean’s mouth to check for his breath, then again on Dean’s chest.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said. His mouth quivered as he cradled Dean’s head in his lap. “Dean, no. Dean—”  
   
Above them, thunder boomed, startling him. Castiel, one hand still holding Dean’s head protectively, the other over Dean’s heart, whipped his head up to gaze at the sky accusingly. “Shut up!” he said, shaking. “Shut up, shut up, would you? Damn you!” He looked back down at Dean’s face. “Dean,” he said, voice cracking, “Dean, you can’t. You can't do this. Please!”  
   
But Dean said nothing. His chest was still and his features, silent.  
   
And so Castiel, for the first time in a long time, bowed his head and prayed.  
   
_Please_ , he thought, eyes clenched shut. _Please, someone. Anyone!_  
   
Nothing.  
   
_Please. I know I am nothing. Worse than nothing, I am a sinner. But he is a just man, a righteous man—_  
   
Tears began to drip down Castiel’s cheeks, mingling with the rain. He hurriedly wiped them away, still focusing on Dean.  
   
_He is the greatest man I have ever met._  
   
But his prayer, if it could even be called that, was clearly unheeded, for Dean did not stir.  
   
Castiel opened his eyes in resignation. He traced shaking fingers over the curve of Dean’s cheek, the bridge of his nose, danced them across his eyelids and his lips. Not knowing what else to do, he gathered Dean closer and slowly began to rock from side to side, holding Dean’s body to him, burying his face in his hair. He did not pray this time, for clearly God had no need to listen to his pleas, he only rocked. And as he swayed, his mind clamped down on the echo of one single, overwhelming thought:  
   
_No, you cannot die, Dean. You still have so much left to live._  
   
Despite the chill, his hands began to feel oddly warm. But, focused as he was, Castiel did not notice. As Castiel rocked and the storm moved south, the warmth inched slowly up to his forearms. It grew hotter and hotter as it passed his elbows and then to his shoulders, reaching over his collarbone to flow down his chest.  
   
When the heat reached his heart, searing now, Castiel jolted. He cried out, his back arching as an overwhelming brightness pounded behind his eyelids, matching the flame now burning inside him. His head jerked back and his body stiffened, eyes unseeing as the heat, now gathered in a tight ball inside his chest, exploded outwards. It raced down towards his feet, curled along his arms, and shot through his fingertips and the open palm of the hand still resting on Dean’s heart, as Castiel opened his mouth in a wordless scream.  
   
And then it was gone and Castiel, unconscious, slumped forward to collapse on top of Dean.

  
#

  
He could hear the sound of rain falling softly to the earth. His right side felt cold and wet, and something was snuffling at his hair. Castiel’s first instinct was to brush it away, before he heard a familiar voice.  
   
“Cas?” a cough. “Cas?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes sprung open, only to be met with a black fuzzy muzzle. Pushing Impala aside however, he found himself confronted with two befuddled green eyes.  
   
“Cas?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse, half propped up on one elbow. “You all right? What the hell happened?”  
   
Castiel scrambled upright to his knees. Before Dean could even open his mouth again, Castiel was on him, grabbing the lapels of his shirt, and kissing him deeply. Dean made a surprised noise, but gave into it as Castiel’s hands came to cradle the sides of his face. Finally, he let go of Dean and bowed his head, blinking back tears.  
   
Hesitantly, Dean reached up to brush the corner of Castiel’s eye.  
   
“Cas?”  
   
Castiel swallowed. “You’re alive,” he choked out. “Dean—”  
   
“Of course I’m alive,” Dean said, puzzled. “I mean, I kind of feel like I got hit in the chest with a mallet or something, but other than that…”  
   
“No.” Castiel shook his head. “No, Dean. You weren’t breathing. You weren’t—” Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s chest, just to feel the warmth of him, the slow pumping of blood beneath the delicate skin, and Dean let out a surprised noise of pain. Castiel removed his hand immediately, eyes widening in concern.  
   
“What the—?” Dean pushed aside the edges of his shirt to look down at his chest. He stared. “Cas?” he breathed, his gaze swinging up.  
   
Very slowly, Castiel reached out to place a palm flat on the hand-shaped mark singed into Dean’s skin. It fit perfectly.  
   
“You were struck by lightening,” Castiel said. “I—”  
   
Dean opened his mouth, then closed it, still staring.  
   
“I don’t know what happened,” Castiel continued shakily. “I didn’t know what to do. I prayed, Dean, I even prayed. I thought, maybe the Novak Gift—but nothing happened.”  
   
Dean moved his hand to rest on top of Castiel’s. “Well, something happened,” he said, wincing a little as he shifted. “Like you said, I’m uh. Alive.”  
   
Castiel bit his lip, nodding. “The prayer must have worked,” he said. “That’s the only explanation I can think of.”  
   
“Huh,” Dean said. He tried to smile. “Guess that means you’re more of a Novak than you thought.”  
   
Castiel looked away. “I suppose,” he said. But internally, he felt a prickle of unease. No healing he had ever seen had brought a man back from the great beyond.  
   
“You’ll be in extra demand on hunts now,” Dean was saying through a yawn. “A real healer?” He covered his mouth, looking betrayed as he yawned again. “Everyone’s gonna want you on their team.”  
   
“I don’t think it’s something I can replicate,” Castiel said quietly. Ignoring Dean’s look of concern, he let his hand drop from Dean’s chest, only to grab hold of his arm, helping to pull him into an upright position. Dean let out a loud groan, distracted now.  
   
“Ow, ow, ow,” he said as he tried to find his feet. “Damn, that is really not pleasant. Whoa.” He wobbled. “My head feels odd.”  
   
“Can you stand?” Castiel asked, still holding on to him anxiously.  
   
“I, uh, maybe?” Castiel let go, and Dean swayed. “Nope. Okay, maybe not. Just, uh. Help me get on Impala?”  
   
“I don’t think I can lift you that much,” Castiel told him. “Do you think you can pull yourself up?” He glanced doubtfully between Dean and Impala, gauging the height of her back.  
   
“No, no. It’s fine.” Dean clenched his teeth as he was jostled again. He felt like he had been slammed into the ground repeatedly. Every single muscle in his body screamed, and his head and chest ached. “She’ll get low for me.” He clicked his tongue, and Impala, who had been—for lack of a better term— _hovering_ near them since Castiel had woken up, dutifully sidled up next to Dean, and lowered herself. With a heave of his own, surprisingly weak-feeling arms, and a little assistance from Dean, Castiel managed to get Dean situated on her back.  
   
Dean clutched at her mane unsteadily as she rose back up, and Castiel’s mouth dropped open in alarm.  
   
“Wait, wait!” he said. “Bring her back down here.”  
   
“Cas, I’m fine,” Dean said, irritably, even as his face turned a bit pale and he tilted sideways. “I’m not going to fall off, it’s just a dizzy spell.”  
   
“You are not fine!” Castiel snapped, stomping his foot. “You were struck by lightening and _died_ , Dean, and I do not want you falling off that horse to break your neck because I _really_ have no idea how I healed you and I’d rather not have to do it again because of your stupid pride.”  
   
Dean frowned down at him, and Castiel scowled right back.  
   
“Fine,” Dean muttered. He clucked to Impala, who lowered herself enough to allow for Castiel to scramble onto her back. Once there, he extended his arms around and past Dean to grab for the reins.  
   
“Come on,” he told Impala. And though he would have never in a million years have expected her to listen to him over her master, astoundingly, she began to move off, taking careful steps down the steep trail. Dean had been right, it was slick, but Castiel figured that Impala could still manage it, so long as they went slowly. It was a better option than him trying to carry Dean, at any rate.  
   
“What happened to your horse?” Dean asked. He had closed his eyes at this point, and was now leaning rather heavily against Castiel’s chest. “Can’t you ride him?”  
   
“He ran off,” Castiel said. Dean snorted.  
   
“So much for the bond between a hunter and his horse.”  
   
“I don’t blame him.” Castiel was quiet for a moment. “It was—it was very loud. And bright. If I were a horse, I would have done the same. He’s probably made his way back to the city by now.”  
   
“But Impala stayed,” Dean murmured, rubbing the coarse hair of her mane between his fingers, patting her clumsily.  
   
“Impala’s different.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean sighed, “she really is.” His head drooped against Castiel’s shoulder. “Sam’s gonna be in a total panic if just the horse comes back.”  
   
Castiel guided Dean’s head to a more secure position as he answered, “Good.”  
   
“Good?” Dean’s eyes flickered open, then closed again. “Why’s that good?”  
   
“Because,” Castiel said, as Impala reached the bottom of the cliff trail and the ground flattened out below them, “he’ll know to get the infirmary ready.”  
 

#

  
As it turned out, Sam did not get the infirmary ready. As soon as he heard that Castiel’s mount had returned without his rider, he flew into a panic and was on his own horse, out the city gates and making for the cliffs before Bobby could even open his mouth to forbid it. Therefore, it was a wet, scared Sam who encountered them first, just at the base of the trail by the maple tree.  
   
“Dean!” Sam shouted, spotting the unmistakable form of Impala emerge from between the cliffs, carrying two riders on her back. He shook free of his cloak, uncaring of the rain plastering his hair to his head. “Dean!”  
   
“Sam?” that was Castiel’s voice. “Sam, is that you?”  
   
“Castiel?” Sam moved his horse to close the gap between them. His eyes widened as he spotted his brother, slumped against Castiel’s chest. “Dean?” he breathed, voice wavering as Impala came to a halt next to him. He jumped off his own horse, making a beeline for his brother.  
   
“He’s alive,” Castiel said, sounding very tired. He coughed.  
   
“What happened?” Sam asked. He touched his brother’s shoulder, relieved to see, now that he was close enough, that Dean was still breathing. “Were you attacked?”  
   
“No.” Castiel coughed again. He too, looked quite pale, Sam noticed. “The storm. He was struck.”  
   
Sam’s mouth dropped open. “He was struck by lightening?” he exclaimed. He clutched at Dean’s arm. “Dean!”  
   
Dean’s eyes fluttered weakly. “Sammy?” he mumbled. “That you?”  
   
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Yeah, it’s me.”  
   
“‘S good,” Dean slurred. He patted Sam’s hand as best he could. “‘M all right.” Sam swallowed.  
   
“He’s alive,” Castiel repeated, as though he could hardly believe it himself.  
   
“Is he injured?” Sam tugged off his own cloak and laid it across Dean’s front. Castiel pulled it up further, securing it around him with a nod of thanks.  
   
“He—” Castiel hesitated. “He has been healed,” he said finally.  
   
“Healed?” They caught eyes, Sam’s searching, Castiel’s uncertain. Then Sam’s expression cleared. “Oh,” he said. “You have the Novak Gift.” He frowned. “I can’t believe I never asked you about that.”  
   
Castiel blinked, looking nonplussed. “I—yes,” he said. “I suppose so.” He cleared his throat. “To be honest, I don’t have much talent,” he confessed. His looked down at Dean. “Just enough for today, I suppose.”  
   
“I’m glad you were there,” Sam told him. “I…” he trailed off, his gaze drawn back to Dean’s face. “I’m glad you were there.”  
   
Castiel bit his lip, nodding. “We need to get back,” he said. “I don’t know how well the—the healing, worked.”  
   
“Right,” Sam said. He clambered back onto his horse. “Is Impala all right to carry you both? Dean can ride with me if you want.”  
   
To Sam’s surprise, at the mere mention of the idea that Dean ride with another, Castiel shook his head vigorously, gathering Dean closer to him. “No, I—” he said. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, his clutch around Dean’s torso loosening the slightest bit. “I’m fine,” he said. “Impala is fine. Please.” He gestured towards the direction of the city. “Lead the way.”

  
#

  
Dean spent a large part of his convalescence deeply asleep. He had a few memories of those days that followed, most of them being either Sam or Castiel hovering somewhere in the background, while a doctor asked him how he felt, before he inevitably drifted off to sleep again.  
   
Finally, he awoke several days after their return with a surprisingly clear head and absolutely ravenous, only to find himself in his own room, with his brother and his foster father sitting vigil at his bedside. Sam, of course, immediately went in for the hug, which Dean tolerated, awkwardly patting him on the back, and hoping to God that he wasn’t about to start crying. Bobby meanwhile, sat and stared at him, mouth a thin line, until Dean, pushing Sam away and back into his seat, began to feel a little uncomfortable.  
   
“Uh, Bobby?” Dean asked, tentatively. He shrunk back in alarm as Bobby, his beard bristling, lunged forward to fold him into a crushing embrace.  
   
“You damn fool child,” Bobby growled into his ear. “You’re lucky you’re not dead.”  
   
Dean let out a weak laugh. Bobby’s grip tightened.  
   
“I’m serious,” he said. “From the way Castiel described your jolt, your heart should’ve stopped.”  
   
“Yeah, well.” Dean coughed. “Apparently it did.”  
   
They stared at him.  
   
“What?” Dean said defensively, “Cas got it going again!”  
   
“Did he now?” Bobby let go of Dean to lean back into his seat. “That’s what he meant by ‘healing you’?”  
   
“I—I guess?” Dean shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. He fiddled with the white linen shirt he didn’t recall changing into. “It did leave a pretty nice mark though,” he said.  
   
“Yeah, we saw.” Sam canted his head. “The lightening left one too.”  
   
“What?”  
   
With Bobby and Sam’s help, Dean managed to totter to his feet long enough to stand in front of a mirror on the side of the room. Sam helped him remove his shirt, and Dean gazed for a moment at the bright read handprint still seared over his heart. Gently, he laid his fingers over it.  
   
“Come on,” Sam said. “Look at your back.”  
   
Obligingly, Dean turned around and, craning his neck to look back at the mirror, blinked at where Sam was pointing. It took him a moment to process what he was seeing: a set of curled reddish lines, looking for all the world like an unfurling fern, radiated out from his left hip, to spread across his lower back. The tip of them reached Dean’s shoulder, with the rest falling somewhere between his scapula and the small of his back.  
   
“Huh,” Dean said, continuing to examine it. “Lightening did that?”  
   
Sam touched it lightly. “Does it hurt?”  
   
“Nah,” Dean said. He reached his own hand back to stroke at the lines. Beneath his fingers just felt like smooth skin. “Can’t feel it at all.”  
   
“Yes, I’m sure you’ll be even more of a hit with the ladies,” Bobby said, coming to stand beside him. He handed Dean his shirt, while Dean furiously tried to act like he hadn’t heard Bobby’s comment. “Now put your shirt back on and get back in bed.”  
   
“What?” Dean protested, even as his knees wobbled. “I just got up!”  
   
“And now you’re going to go back down again,” Bobby told him, catching his arm as he stumbled a little. Sam immediately went to his other side, and together they managed to heave him back into bed.  
   
“This is totally unnecessary,” Dean said, crossing his arms and glaring at the two of them. He then ruined the moment by yawning hugely.  
   
“Oh yeah,” Sam said, exchanging glances with Bobby. “Totally unnecessary.”

  
#

 

It was early morning the next time Dean awoke. The sun had yet to rise, and Dean could barely see the predawn light glowing faintly through the gaps in the curtains.  
   
He was alone.  
   
This time, when he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, his body was much more cooperative, though shaky. When his feet hit the cold of the flagstones, Dean remained still for a few moments, trying to gauge his ability to remain upright. Satisfied when he did not fall, he slowly made his way to his wardrobe, where he pulled out a pair of trousers, a cloak, and some boots; he didn’t bother changing his shirt.  
   
After a minute or so of recovering from the process of clothing himself, Dean, one hand on the wall to steady his balance, inched out of the room. He winced when the door slammed shut behind him, but when there was no sounds of a fuss, figured that if Sam wasn’t awake already, a bit of noise wasn’t going to do the job.  
   
His first thought was to go and visit Castiel. However, he soon realized that a) Castiel was probably sleeping, and b) based on their previous interactions, it was very unlikely that Oren would let him in anyway. So instead, Dean found himself navigating the dark of the back corridors, heading for the stables. He was still quite hungry, so he took the route that led him through the kitchens, stealing an apple and some kind of fruit tart, trying to avoid being seen by the early morning kitchen staff.  
   
Impala, at least, was glad to see him, if the way she nickered softly and butted his chest was any indication. He stroked her, offering pieces of apple, and whispering his thanks for not abandoning him.  
   
While Impala crunched on the apple, Dean finished up his stolen tart, licking the last of the stickiness from his fingers. He rose to his feet, leaning against the wall for a moment to recover his balance, and then led Impala out of the stables, towards the wooded path that went around the city gates, heading for the beach.  
   
He left her halter on but didn’t bother with a saddle, slowly clambering onto her bare back, as she lowered herself for him. He didn’t bother to direct her either, figuring that she knew where he wanted to go. And true to form, several minutes later, they found themselves at the edges of the beach. Since the area this far away from the main docks was usually empty so early in the morning, Dean was surprised to see a lone figure sitting in the shadow of a sand dune. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and his cloak covered his head as he watched the water. But as Dean drew nearer, he realized that even with his features hidden, Dean knew who it was.  
   
Gingerly, he slid off of Impala, was stood patiently for him. Patting her on the shoulder, he staggered over to the cloaked figure and sat down gracelessly at his side. “Hey, Cas,” he said quietly.  
   
Castiel turned. “Dean,” he said, eyebrows rising. “You’re awake.”  
   
Dean tried for a smile. “Apparently,” he said. Castiel’s eyes narrowed.  
   
“Does Sam know you’re here?”  
   
“Not really,” Dean admitted. He scratched the back of his neck.  
   
“Dean…”  
   
“Hey,” Dean said. “I got bored lying in bed. And Impala needed to stretch her legs, anyway.”  
   
Castiel’s expression did not change. “I have been exercising her,” he said. “You have no excuse to be out of bed.”  
   
“Really?” Dean cast a glance back at Impala, who was standing, quite docile, several feet away. “She’s been letting you ride her?”  
   
“Occasionally,” Castiel said, which, in Dean’s book, was enough of a miracle to qualify for sainthood.  
   
“She must really like you.”  
   
Castiel dragged his fingers through the sand. “She did miss you,” he said. “She was never so lively with me as she is with you.”  
   
“Oh,” Dean said. His eyes softened. “I missed her, too.”  
   
They lapsed into quiet for a few minutes, as the first rays of the morning sun began to shine behind them. Dean cleared his throat.  
   
“Hey, Cas?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“How come you didn’t tell the doctor that I—that I died?”  
   
Castiel was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the sea before him, his hands still mindlessly drawing patterns in the sand. “Because,” he said at long last, “I didn’t—” he frowned, searching for the correct words, “—I don’t know what happened,” he said finally. “And I didn’t want to worry anyone. Or, or frighten them.”  
   
Dean took a moment to digest that. “What do you mean?”  
   
Castiel sighed. He tilted his head back, and his hood fell off, revealing the wild black of his hair, the morning flush in his cheeks. “I’ve never seen the Novak Gift work like that,” he said quietly. He paused, then, swallowing, added, “It shouldn’t have worked, Dean. Whatever happened it—it shouldn’t have. Not by any laws I know.”  
   
Dean felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze coming off the water. “You’re saying I should be dead.”  
   
Castiel’s expression was suddenly fierce. “I don’t care,” he said. He gripped Dean by the shoulder. “I don’t care if it was by God’s will or the Devil’s. I’m glad you’re alive, Dean.” He brushed his lips to Dean’s, and then rested his forehead just below his collarbone, murmuring, “I’m glad you’re here.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, around a lump in his throat. His hands came up to stroke Castiel’s hair. “Me too.”  
   
But Castiel wasn’t finished. “I wept for you,” he whispered to the hollow in Dean’s throat. “When you died. But it wasn’t just for you. It was for all the time—all the time we wouldn’t spend together and, and all the time we—we missed because I was such a coward, I was so frightened of what could happen if we were discovered that I didn’t embrace what we had—”  
   
“Cas,” Dean said hurriedly, “you’re not a coward, don’t even think that. You’re one of the best men I’ve ever met. All right? Don’t—don’t say things like that. I’m here now, all right? We have all the time in the world right now. Just you and me. I promise.”  
   
And Castiel looked up at him. His eyes were bright, but no tears fell. “You don’t know what’s going to happen, Dean,” he said. “Not any more than I do.” He sighed, loosening his hold on Dean’s shirt, smoothing it down. “Michael could decide to go to war tomorrow,” he said. “One of us could die in a hunt or, or even slip and fall down the stairs.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth to gainsay that, but Castiel continued.  
   
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said again. He brought his hand up to trace a finger along Dean’s face, skittering along the line of his jaw, and then cupping his chin to bring their mouths together. “We can’t know the future,” he said, when they separated. “But in the here and now, know that I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but with you.”  
   
Dean bit his lip. “Cas,” he said shakily. Unable to stop himself, he leaned in for another kiss, which Cas returned hungrily. “Me too,” he said. “I—everything you said. Me too.”  
   
Castiel smiled up at him. “Thank you, Dean.” He rested his head against Dean’s shoulder.  
   
“Don’t thank me,” Dean said, embarrassed.  
   
“I like to.”  
   
He lifted his arm to slide it around Castiel’s waist, careful not to jostle him. “You’re so odd sometimes, you know?” he said.  
   
“Yes, so you’ve told me.”  
   
“Yeah, well.” Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “I guess I like you anyway.”  
   
Castiel closed his eyes, inhaling Dean’s reassuring leather and horse scent. “Good.”  
   
Dean snorted, adjusting his position once more, to pull Castiel more comfortably against him.  
   
And, sitting there together on the beach, they waited for the sun to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading this story! I really appreciate all of your comments etc. This story is complete, but the series is not, so there will also be a sequel to 'Borderlands'.
> 
> Also, the fractal-like scars that Dean has after getting hit by lightning are known as "Lichtenberg figures".


End file.
